


To Love Was A Sin

by Morgan_Inkeye



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Dream Sex, Forbidden Love, Incest, Insecure Irmo, M/M, Nightmares, Sleep Paralysis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-06-07 20:58:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 37,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15227757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgan_Inkeye/pseuds/Morgan_Inkeye
Summary: Sleep is the brother of Death, and great love runs between them.





	1. Of Marble Beds And Silver Light

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, thank you for stopping by. Carrying on with this ship... Still borrowing the ideas from @your-dark-magic-man-mysterio (on Tumblr)'s wonderful mind. All credit goes to this beautiful being !  
> Enjoy your trip to the Gardens of Lorien, and the Halls of Mandos... and into the minds of our angsty Valar brothers.

     Far into the Gardens of Lorien, beyond a sea of sleeping faces, was the Master upon his bed of marble.  
He laid on his back, chest rising and falling with regular peace, his features so calm, they gave his visage the aspect of a porcelain mask. His long, white hair was spilt on the smooth stone surface, cascading down as a diaphanous veil, and unto the ivy-covered ground.  
  


A faint, gentle wind murmured through the leaves and trees of the Gardens, whispering surreal dreams, tales of their Master's creations. The Gardens were a cemetery for sleepers, of colours bright yet somber. All things gave off soft, unearthy light, bathing in their eerie glow this realm of slumber. For even the skies were black, at times blue or purple, sometimes even crimson, reflecting the Master's mind and emotions. All who stepped in the Gardens immediately were aware of Irmo's might, and no one dared underestimating him.

Visitors where however not unwelcome. Yet they had to bear the odd atmosphere of the Gardens, which was unlike any other place in Valinor.  
  


Not even the Halls of Mandos could rivalize with such strangeness. However, Namo did enjoy his brother's realm.  
Often would he come there, and walk through the sleeping Maiar, avoiding to make sound that could wake them up, until he finally reached Irmo's place.  
He could always see him from afar – a figure untroubled, into a deep slumber, whose radiating peace and beauty touched even Namo. He, who many called the Cold-Hearted, emotionless and statue-like. In Irmo's presence, all of those names turned ill-befitting.

For even as he merely watched him, Namo's soul and heart became unburdened, and joy replaced his usual bleakness.  
He never woke Irmo up. He simply watched him, and over him, until by himself the Master of Dreams came back from his surreal journey.  
  


This moment, was what Namo loved above all : when Irmo opened his eyes of glass, and his lashes fluttered, as wings of the palest dove. And a smile would paint itself upon both the brothers' lips, as they recognized each other. For long moments they could simply stare, not exchanging any spoken word. Then, and only then Irmo would rise from his marble bed, and take Namo's hand to help himself standing up.

  
They talked little – by touch and looks much more could be said than by voice. Even in the emptiness of Namo's ivory eyes, Irmo found soul, emotion, and even wit.  
Both were complex beings – few could understand their nature, and person altogether. And they knew each other better than anyone else did. Neither Este nor Vairë, could truly decipher their minds.  
There was a bond between the brothers that no one could sever, nor reproduce. There was _love_ , and so great, such a simple word could not express the greatness of their mutual adoration.

 

Here, away from all eyes and ears, they were alone. The ambient darkness and mists of the Gardens concealed them. No one shall ever know of their moments. For if as brothers Eru created them, their soul called and pulled at each other as lovers, whose feelings had been cursed with forbiddeness.  
But were they not all children of Eru ? Was their love truly different than Manwë and Varda's ?  
Such questions had they often asked themselves, yet no answer could they find, for the ways of Eru could not be understood. He who had designed all things, and woven all destinies, had surely made them brothers for one mysterious reason.  
  


It was rebellion, of some sort, to love each other. Yet they cared not – for far too long had they felt this way for the other, and repressing the impulse of their heart would only have brought them more misery. They however never spoke of it, and their love remained silent, even when they embraced and kissed, enclosed in their secret passion.  
  


    In the Gardens they met, but not only there. The Halls of Mandos offered more privacy, and doors that they could shut behind them, providing them with this so wished-for intimacy.  
It was Namo who led his brother in the Halls, holding his delicate hand in his own long, skeletal one. Irmo did not fear many things, yet in complete darkness, he felt uneasy. So Namo accompanied him, as they paced together through the endless corridors, leading to the Master's quarters. There, they shut the door behind them.  
  


All was black, in this room. From floor to ceiling, not forgetting the walls, the deepest blackness seemed to absord the faint, silver-blue light that flickered on the candelabra.  
Yet this odd atmosphere Irmo found comforting, for it mirrored Namo's heart : devoid of light, except for when his brother was by his side.  
Namo usually favoured utter darnkess, and banned all light from his private quarters. He and Vairë did not spend much time together, and they both possessed their personal rooms in the Halls, where they dwelt in silence.  
  


But when Irmo was there, Namo lit candles for him, though no flame could beat his brother's own radiance. And even if he cherished darkness, he loved the sight of Irmo even more, and would never miss an opportunity to lay his eyes upon his figure – his lithe, ethereal shape clad in pale shades.  
  


Namo always took great pleasure in running his bony hands through his brother's hair, and on his porcelain-like skin. His lips, as though hand-drawn upon his face, beckoned to him, and he could not resist them. He was as a moth mesmerized by a flame, with the certainty to burn alive.  
  


With each kiss they exchanged, they grew eager and desired more – always more. Yet no matter how ardently they wanted each other, their love could not be consumed. Passion caused them pain, stabbed them with billions of shards of glass, shattering their very essence.

When they were out of breath, their lips swollen by their kiss, they knew they had to stop – before they lost themselves in fatal passion.  
  


There was a curse upon them. To love each other so ardently, and not being able to commit the forbidden act, was the doom of their existence. For even though the love they shared needed neither words nor interraction of the flesh, the impossibility to experience it frustrated them both.  
  


How cruel had Eru been, when he made them brothers. Often did they wish they were just as their sister, alone and devoid of all desire for such _things_. Sometimes, they wondered whether or not Nienna suspected anything. She probably did, yet said nothing of it. Her capacity to understand, and to feel compassion was greater than any other being. Even if she knew, she would not speak of it – even to them.  
  


But what if anyone else was to discover their secret ? Such feelings between siblings were forbidden, amongst the Ainur and the Children alike. The mere idea of physical interraction was generally frowned upon, for the Valar had no need for it – the Maiar usually were more lax on the subject, however.  
For Gods, immortal and pure, love was about feelings, and certainly not carnal desire.

 

What a scandal would it be, if they were to be exposed ! They would receive punishment – though Manwë was merciful, he listened to Eru's word, and took into consideration the opinion of the other Valar.  
This was something they prefered not to think about, especially when they laid together on Namo's bed, bare and entangled, exchanging kisses and caresses, yet no more – _never_.

 

''What is troubling you ?'' Namo asked in a whisper, noticing Irmo's grave expression. He stroked his cheek as they looked at each other, losing themselves in their eyes.

  
''It is nothing,'' Irmo smiled, shaking his head. ''Nothing different than usual.''  
  


Namo pulled him tightly in his arms, and closed his eyes, feeling at peace there. Silence all around, keeping the secret of their love, and his dear brother clasped to his chest.

 

''No one will ever know,'' Namo declared, kissing his forehead. ''How could they ?''

 

''I know not, Sweet Brother,'' Irmo replied with a sigh. ''Perhaps they already know, and are deciding of our fate as we speak.''  
  


Namo tightened his embrace, groaning.

 

''Do not think about it,'' he said, more for himself than for Irmo. ''There is no need to be concerned.''

 

Irmo nodded, but sadness ghosted upon his face, and he looked up to stare at his brother.

 

''Do you love me ?'' he murmured.

 

But Namo answered not. He kissed him in response, making it stand for this simple word Irmo so wished to hear. Never did he utter it ; this _yes_ Irmo longed for. He knew Namo loved him, yet sometimes, he just wanted confirmation.

 

''I should go back to the Gardens,'' Irmo sighed, as he broke the kiss. ''I do not want Este to ask questions.''

 

Namo nodded, imitating Irmo as he got up, and started to get dressed anew.  
He watched him as he put on his pale, floating raiment again, and as he pulled his long, white hair out of his blouse, that let his back be seen through. Namo could almost see them, the nearly invisible wings, plastered against Irmo's back and on his shoulders. They glimmered in the silver light of the candles, transparent and delicate, as butterfly wings made of crystal.  
  


Namo had seldomly seen him spreading them. He remembered one time, when Irmo was asleep, and both his hair and wings covered the marble of his bed – that resembled a tomb, now that he thought about it.  
Irmo had looked like a dead creature, a mystical being that had come down from the heavens to pass away, and that laid as a still, dream-like beauty.  
Namo had watched him sleeping, daring not to move – for Irmo was busy on nightmares, and could not be bothered.  
  


Irmo's beauty surpassed by far all of the Valar's reunited, and this made Namo even more bitter about their sick, sad reality. For he would never be able to fully embrace his dearest one, or to show him how greatly he adored him, lest he perished in the process.

 

They walked together to the Halls' gate, and once they were outside, Namo reluctantly let go of his hand.  
Irmo turned his head to him, and quickly glanced aside to check for possible spectators. Seeing they were still alone, he leant on to steal another kiss from his dear brother. Outside of the Halls, or far away from the Gardens, they could never be sure whether or not they were being spied on. But this thrill of danger set their senses ablaze, and they enjoyed it even more.

 

Irmo gave his brother an amused smile before he walked away, his heart fluttering with joy, and mind filled with the close memory of their tender moment.  
Namo watched him go, until his silhouette vanished in the horizon, and only then did he turn back to his Halls.  
He had matters to attend to... and a newly arrived prisoner to visit.

 


	2. Papillon Liquide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Without further ado... chapter two. Enjoy ! :)

     Deep and dark was Namo's sleep, when he decided to rest. There were faces, blank and flat with empty eyes, endless caverns dug into stone. They moved in odd, ragged motions, they spun and danced, hissed hushed howls with their soundless voice. Some wept. Some laughed. Some whispered at his ears, climbed upon him, nestled themselves in the crook of his neck.   
Those visions did not unsettle him. He was used to them, and had been knowing them ever since he fell asleep for the first time.   
  


Fortunately however, those dreams were not the only ones that caressed his mind. For when his slumber was the deepest, colours emerged from nowhere, and enclosed him in their soft arms. And the gaunt, lonesome faces were replaced by a single being, whose radiant presence chased all unearthy creatures away.   
But Namo was not blinded, for his brother despised bright light as well, and would never put them both in such pain. This glow was gentle, comforting in its dimness, unlike the obnoxious full light most Valar adored.   
  


A shape, tall and slender, with hair and skin of opale white, stood before him.   
Irmo often visited him in his sleep – for there, no barriers held them back from enjoying each other's presence. All was permitted, devoid of rules. Nothing was forbidden to them, neither by moral nor by a superior power.   
  


A gentle hand brushed at his cheek, and soon, the entirety of Irmo's shape embraced him. He could feel his pale hands roaming his back, and his velvet-soft lips kissing his own, with unconcealed desire. They were merging, their flesh vanishing to let their bare essence dance as one, as a single figure of light and dark.

  
Namo's sleep was light. He could decide to awake, and put an end to this feverish dream at any moment, yet he let it linger a bit more. But he took control.   
Their essence separated, and they were two anew. A fusion of the soul was not unpleasant – it was beautiful, in so many ways. Yet as they dreamt, they could make their _flesh_ fuse together...  
He reached out, pulling Irmo's form to his own again, and into a carnal kiss. He could feel him trembling with pleasure, responding with eagerness. Neither of them wanted to lose time.   
  
The setting around them changed, morphed into a blurred, hazy copy of Namo's quarters. He laid on his back, and let Irmo crown himself upon his hips, straddling him. His brother leant down to kiss him, as Namo placed his hands on his sides, and traced down them, to his spread thighs. He growled low in their kiss, as he could feel their warm, bare skin pressed so closely together.

  
How full of wonders were dreams. How perfectly detailed, and realistic could they be, when one held control over them. All sensations seemed so genuine. And the Master of Dreams was there, thighs spread across his brother's hips, moaning and moving in rhythm, his head thrown back, his whole body tightly clenched around Namo.   
And his voice, his _voice_! Was there more beautiful a tune in all of Arda, than Irmo's chant of passionate bliss, this chant Namo made him sing aloud ? It was _their_ music, their forbidden symphony, that in thought and dreams only they could utter.   
Yet is always ended too soon to Namo's taste, for conjuring such visions took Irmo much energy. As though even there, in dreams, their curse did not grant them any peace.   
  


Soon all started to vanish. Namo opened his eyes to find himself cold, and surrounded by silent darkness. He let out a long sigh, turning his head to his side. Alone. Would he one day awake with Irmo, bare just as him, and peacefully asleep ?   
He cursed under his breath. This was a foolish hope to have.   
  
Namo rose up and got dressed, choosing not to think about this far too pleasant dream any longer.   
If he were to listen to himself, he would seldomly be awake. For if in his dreams he could join his dear brother, and lay with him unpunished, was it not better than this painful, frustrating wakeness ? The love he bore for Irmo was destructive, it was a parasite feeling, that suffered neither being ignored nor forgotten.   
And it devoured him, devoured them both.   
  
  


     Silence had fallen upon the Gardens. All the Maiar were asleep and motionless, curled up on themselves or laying on the ground. Some were hunched over a branch, or a rock, as though sleep had struck them suddenly, and they had not had the strength to fight it.   
Irmo walked through the fields of immobile figures, keeping an eye on his servants at work. They did not have the easiest task.   
Dreams could be completely created, and be something the sleeper had never seen before. Yet most often, they were made from pieces, bits of memories sewn together, to end up resembling a monstrous shape of confusion and fear.  
  


Nightmares, were the most interesting to work on. Though Irmo prefered to provide rest and peaceful visions, he had to admit he had something for the darker places of one's mind. It was odd, how one could be so much more creative with horrors than with beauty. Irmo usually had little work to do, when it came to nightmares. For one always seemed to know better what to fear and redoubt, than what could make one glad and jolly. Fears were undoubtedly interesting. They were impressive, even. And they were countless, each unlike the next ! From the uttermost plainness, to the most terrifying irrationality.   
  


If Irmo truly wanted it, he could bend anyone to his will, using fears as a threat and means to obtain what he wished. He knew _everyone's_ most dreaded thing – heights, darkness, fire, water. Those were the most common. Some feared touch, noise, cold, light. Yet he was no vicious tormentor. Never would he use fears agaisnt their possessor. But he had to admit, it could become useful at some point.

  
However Irmo prefered putting his energy to better use. A playful smile stretched his lips, as he thought back about some of the visions he had earlier sent to Namo. When it came to this, Irmo never lacked creativity. For if in the flesh they could not satisfy their burning desire for each other, in the realm of dreams, things were completely different. And Irmo never failed to impress his brother.   
  


Of course, it was unlike what it could be in _truth._ And the disappointment it brought when they awoke alone, was always there to remind them of their sad situation.   
But in those visions at least, no one could suspect what they were doing. There were no eyes to spy on them, no ears to catch a faint sigh. They were free to pleasure each other, and it was marvelous. Irmo could not deny he loved to hear his brother's thoughts, and _suggestions_ for their future mental journeys...   
Even though lately, Namo did not seem to enjoy it as much as before. When Irmo was to ask him about it, he either avoided answering, or simply remained silent.   
  
And it _did_ sadden, and even frustrate Irmo. He never knew what his brother had in mind. He was hard to read, and his emotions could not be analyzed. With time, Irmo had of course learnt to tell when he was smiling, frowning, _smirking_. He saw it better than anyone else, and even doubted there were people who paid enough attention to Namo, to make the effort to understand him.   
Yet sometimes, he wished he did not have to decipher him, and that Namo would simply speak to him, even of mundane matters.   
  


He sighed, and sat down near the Lake. Its waters were changing – sometimes bright blue, as though they were lit from below. They could also take a soft, pale pink shade, or even resemble a pool of ink. Just as the skies, they reflected Irmo's mindset.

  
He enjoyed swimming in the colourful waters, letting them swallow him whole. He then would close his eyes, and float in this liquid Void.   
Was it what it felt like, to be shapeless ? He could disembody, of course, yet it did not exactly feel the same. To truly be formless, weightless, senseless. To only have a mind to think.

  
He could not drown, no matter how much time he spent there, down below – those waters were his. And the dreams he brewed, when he laid underwater, were of an unique kind.   
They were abstract, of cascading thoughts and echoing voices, swirling bright sound that no one had heard before.   
Those dreams were intense, and he could give them to the Valar only, for weaker minds could certainly not endure them. They were too powerful, maddening and exhausting. Not everyone was fitted for them.   
Even some of the Valar, had difficulty bearing such colourful visions. Often did they give him a side-eye glare, when they met him after one of those reveries. He usually shrugged it away – he _could_ control it, but they did not have to know, did they ? It was part of his experiments with the mind. All minds were different.

  
This, was one of the multiple advantages of being able to see into someone's thoughts. They all were unique, had their own colours and shapes, sounds and atmosphere.   
Manwë's was light blue, fresh and windy. Tulkas' resounded with clashing weapons and barking laughter.   
And Namo's, was of course the most exquisite. Calm and dark, a shapeless bulk of blackness that no light could pierce through – except Irmo's own.   
Namo knew it, when his brother visited his thoughts. He welcomed his brother, to shape all things as he wished, to dance or sing with him, or to simply hold him tightly.   
Lately however, Namo's mind was grey and bleak. There still was this welcoming aura to it, but it was somehow different than before. And Irmo could not question him about it, could he ?   
  


He could see into one's mind, which did not mean he had to lay it bare at the feet of its owner. It would be invasive, intrusive. It would be exposing secrets, and things one would never wish to face directly. Had he not been the Master of Dreams, he would have _hated_ someone to peek into his thoughts, and to spit them back into his face afterwards.   
It was not Namo's fault. He had to be sympathetic with him, yet it made him upset. Especially when Namo _consciously_ rejected him from his mind. Irmo could tell the difference – he was no fool.   
  
He shook his head, looking away from the Lake's waters. Their colour had changed from light blue to dark, deep red – which usually mirrored Irmo's anger.   
  


_Things you have no control over_ , he thought with irony.   
  


His eyes were starting to close, as sleep slowly crept on him. He was beginning to drift away, to simply _rest,_ this time. Creating dreams was exhausting, unlike what many thought. He too needed to ease his mind a bit, to allow himself to sink into a thoughtless moment. He could shape dreams for himself, of course. Yet feeling nothing, seeing nothing had its charm too.   
But he would not rest just yet. For he felt the familiar presence of Namo, coming towards him.   
He smiled as his brother sat beside him, nodding to greet him.   
  
''What owes me the pleasure ?'' Irmo asked, delighted.   
  
Namo answered not, as usual. He simply took his brother's hand in his own, and they remained silent. Irmo had laid his head upon his shoulder, and felt sleep claiming him anew.   
  
''Do not resist,'' Namo said softly. ''I do not mind.''.   
  
Irmo kissed his cheek as to thank him. No one was around, anyway. He let his eyelids fall shut again, and felt himself sliding down. He rested his head on Namo's lap, sighing in ease as his brother caressed his hair. Even though he knew Namo would still not talk, he was glad to have him there. A deep slumber devoid of visions took him, and his lips stilled into a content smile.

 

All around them, butterflies and moths had come to flutter their powdery wings, raining sand-thin dust as they flew around. Namo watched them as they moved about, chasing each other, touching their tiny legs and going up in whirls of bright colours, invading the open space with their dance. They seemed to multiply, to be born from the wings of another, and immediately did they join their elders' merry dance.   
Namo could not take his eyes away from them, and stayed frozen in admiration, mesmerized by both the waltzing butterflies, and the calm, soothing presence of his brother, sleeping safely on his lap. His own eyes started to close.   
  
He drifted away too, his dreams filled by a plague of butterflies.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it. Things will turn a bit more angsty with the next chapter... worry not.  
> Thank you for reading. As always, please let me know what you thought ! :)   
> Much love <3


	3. Problème d'Émotion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three... Enjoy ! :)

     Something strange was afoot, in the Halls of Mandos. For a little while now, all the Maiar had turned fearful, redoubting even their own shadow. They were startled at the voice of their Master, and even of his wife, when Vairë happened to adress to them.  
It was another sort of silence, utterly different from before. It was dense, unsettling. Additional candles had been lit, and darkness was no longer complete, yet the atmosphere was no less grim. It even was far worse.

  
All things had started to change when a new prisoner had been brought, chained and locked away – hidden from all eyes. Yet his very presence oozed threat, discord, it changed the air itself. As though it had decided to thicken into a black, gloomy mist, that entered into lungs and brains, injecting unrest into anguished minds.  
Of course Namo had expected it. Melkor's presence in the Halls could neither be unnoticed, nor without impact.

  
He was the only one to visit him, for now. It had been Manwë's demand – to leave him alone for some time, so that Melkor could ponder upon his deeds. Yet someone had to make sure he was neither plotting, nor meeting allies in secret. This was little likely. But someone had to ease Manwë's concerned mind, and if it were not Namo, no one else would do it.

  
For the King of the Valar was tormented by his decision of having condemned his own brother to captivity, and isolation.  
Namo, just as many others, found it fair – maybe even too kind. Melkor had made mistakes ; this sentence served him well. If Manwë had however made the _right_ choice, he would have simplified this penalty to eternity, not only three ages. His hope for Melkor's redemption was in vain, and all knew it.  
  


Namo shrugged it away, trying not to think too much about this matter. It did not concern him directly, anyway. And there was no point in searching for logic in Manwë's judgement, as all had learnt to know it. He was too merciful, and blind when faced with evil.  
There yet was one positive aspect to all of this change : as light had been brought to the Halls, in an attempt to ease the Maiar's crippling fear, Irmo redoubted less to come on his own. Plus, Namo's Maiar were too busy chasing shadows, and playing tricks on one another – thing that Namo did not understand – to truly care about who came uninvited into the Halls.  
  
He should not be so jolly about his brother visiting him so frequently. Namo was concerned about their secret, and if it truly were one any longer. Their ambiguous proximity had been noticed, in the Halls and the Gardens, by Maiar and even by Este.  
  


They were holding hands, as Namo listened to his brother – he told him about ideas for future dreams, about his discovery of substances, that could utterly change one's mind for a short period of time. Namo found it all of great interest, unlike what Irmo probably thought, seeing his blank face. Yet he drank on Irmo's words as parched animal, always eager to hear more of his melodious voice. But for this whole time, as he listened closely and caressed his brother's hand, he had felt a presence – Este's. And she was there, watching from afar, a slight frown upon her face.  
  


This had made him even more concerned about continuing his visits to the Gardens. Plus, now that Melkor was there – under _his_ guard, he must constantly be present. Tensions were rising with every passing day of the Dark One's captivity, and it could explode at any moment. He also had to be wary of Melkor's enemies – for he had his lot of them, and some that would certainly not be as kind as Manwë.  
  


It was known that Tulkas was unhappy about Melkor's sentence. He would have prefered him to be destroyed, or forever cast away, so that his existence would trouble no one anymore. However Tulkas' role had merely been to defeat him, and of this, he was unsatisfied.  
It would be careless, for Namo to leave his Halls for too long. So Irmo had decided to visit him instead, even though the Master of Dreams had noticed his brother's reluctance.  
  


 

     As Irmo walked through the long, high-ceilinged corridors of the Halls, he still debated with himself on the idea of visiting his brother, this time. He did not wish to bother him, as Namo had many matters to attend to, even more since _this_ prisoner arrived. Yet the desire of seeing him was stronger, even if it were for a short while only.  
  


He stopped, and leant back against a wall, thinking. Was it worth it ?  
Namo would most likely remain silent, as usual. He would perhaps not even look at him, and stay focused on more important tasks. Namo's eyes may be white, and void, yet Irmo was enough used to them to tell when he was paying attention to him, or not. He could read him quite well, without even entering his mind.  
Yet Namo's emotionlessness was no comforting thing, and often did Irmo feel silly, and far too demonstrative when in his brother's presence.  
This impression of being just a burden to Namo had been faint, in their first days. Yet it had grown rapidly, and it now constantly was in Irmo's mind, as a noisy little bug that had settled in his ear, and laid eggs of doubt deep into his skull.

  
Perhaps it would be better to put a little space between them. Irmo was neither capricious nor unpatient ; he could wait. Wait, and see Namo's reaction – if there even was one.  
The possibility of Namo not even noticing it, sent a stabbing pain to his heart. However it would give him certitude about his brother's feelings for him, and he would doubt no more. He would not have to constantly ask himself whether of not Namo _truly_ loved him anymore.  
What a sad thing to consider. Yet was there any other choice to be made ? He could not – would not go to him directly, and ask him to answer for his coldness. It was the way Namo had always been.  
  


Of the Feanturi, Irmo was the most colorful. He smiled, he laughed, he cried and sang for his pleasure, for joy or anger, for grief. He talked for the three of them, some often said. And though this reputation gave him the seeming of an affable, comforting figure, he often wished he were no different from his siblings.  
Both Namo and Nienna were mysterious, silent. They had blank faces, were controlled in their attitude, in their emotions. Their were confident and strong – all that Irmo was not, even remotely. Being this beaming, expressive one, did not truly please him. Especially when he thought his brother would love him better – or love him at all, if he were devoid of this burden one called ''heart''.  
  


Irmo forced himself to repress shameful tears, and turned back from his initial destination. Namo needed calm, solitude. He certainly did not have time for his ridiculous brother. Could Irmo truly blame him, for being the way _he_ would never come close to be ? It was envy. It was sheer jealously, and the desperate wish of feeling even slightly better about himself.  
  


He hurried his steps as the gates came into sight, and finally ran, as to escape those parasite thoughts. But parasite were they really ? Were they just not words of truth, that he refused to accept ? He simply was unfitted for Namo. He, a too bright being, whose heart radiated with colours and merry tunes, could never suit his brother's taste.

  
Perhaps their love was not a curse, in the end. It only was not meant to be, and there were reasons why. One must only be lucid to understand them, and Irmo had deliberately ignored them for too long. Namo was patient with him out of pity only – pity for his ridiculous, slow-to-think little brother.  
It would be better to take some time, indeed. And if Namo did not reach out for him, even after the passing of months... He would have his answer. Truth always hurt, did it not ?  
  
Irmo pushed open the heavy, towering gates of the Halls, and winced in pain as the light of Laurelin blinded him. It was so dark behind him, that this golden, burning shine seemed to sear him whole. He nonetheless looked up, challenging the light, and as he exhaled his wings started to emerge from his skin.  
He could feel them digging their way up to the air, tearing his thin skin as they did. They unfolded from his back, his shoulders and waist, unwrapping themselves in full bloom. He immediately took off, flying away as fast as he could, far away from this place – and to his own.  
  


  
_Remain in your Gardens,_ he thought. _Leave him alone. You do not deserve him._  
  


  
     Upon his return to Lorien, Irmo realized how _cold_ everything was. The skies, and Lake, and all things that used to glow, the little and the great alike, had taken a dull and dark taint.  
He saw his Maiar still asleep, yet troubled. Their eyes, tightly shut were crowned by a frown, and their entire selves bore an expression of hurt. Their lips were pursed, and their fists clenched. Some were curled up on themselves protectively, as though frightened by their own sleep – or by the Gardens' grimness.  
Irmo attempted to calm himself down, to empty his mind of all concerns. Yet nothing changed, and all remained in shades of dark, cold colours.  
  
Could he truly modify it all only by wishing ? Certainly not – he had no control, over anything. Not even over the appearance of his own realm : for if he could lie and pretend, the Gardens reflected the truth of his heart, and knew not how to deceive.  
There was only one thing to do, though he disliked forcing nightmares on others – largely prefered designing them, and using them in good time. But by channelling his own anguish and sorrow, he would rid his heart of burdens, and thus his Gardens could be a place of rest and peace again.  
  
If only he were emotionless. If only he could master himself, and give to the Gardens the ever-same, ever unchanged seeming. Just as were the Halls of Mandos – statued into majestic walls, proud and high, a place of confidence and order. It was not by chance : Namo knew how not to be slave of his own heart, or simply had none.  
Why would Irmo be special ? If his brother felt nothing, towards no one, then he was no exception.  
  


Pacing through his Gardens, he promptly reached his place of sleep.  
The white marble of his altar-like bed had turned coal-black, being no differently affected than the rest of the realm.  
As soon as he stepped beneath the vaulted ceiling, the ivy that serpented around the columns started to move. It was alive, creeping and crawling to cover the entire construction, wrapping it in ropes of plant. On the apertures it closed itself, weaving a tightly-knotted net, preventing all and everyone from seeing or stepping through.  
There was an eerie glow, inside of Irmo's confined temple. From nowhere and everywhere at once it came, as though the air itself was giving it off, bathing it all in an odd black light.  
  
In this dense, heavy atmosphere, Irmo felt sleep preying on him. And the hard, cold surface of his bed called to him, as an extended hand reaching out for him. He laid on the marble, on his back, feeling himself strangely relaxed. He could feel the tip of his hair, and of his still unfolded wings caressing the ivy-swarmed ground, tangling with the snakes-like plant.  
  


His eyes closed.  
  
Irmo started to slowly drift away, the ghastly silence all around pressing him down, crushing him down on the polished stone, pinning him still. He suddenly felt feeble. His heart beat slowly, and his breathing grew faint, progressively weakening. His chest was barely lifting itself, as though his entire body had petrified, and he was no more than a statue upon a tomb.  
  
He was sinking. There were hands, countless, groping and seizing him, pushing his chest down, commanding it to rise no more. The same pressure weighted on his forehead, on his eyes, pushing them into their sockets. His entire face seemed about to be crushed.  
In this dangerous sleep he drowned, alone and concealed beneath an ivy drapery, gradually unleashing his nightmares.  
  


No one would sleep calmly for some time.

 


	4. It Is Safe To Sleep Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect some more angst, nightmares, and a caring Namo...

     Namo was floating in a sea of ink, neither sinking nor coming up to the surface. He was just below it, his entire body submersed in black waters. He could not move, could not wake up. He was trapped.

  
His motionless body laid before Irmo's temple in the Gardens, upon an ivy-flooded ground, shrouded by darkness.   
From afar, Namo probably looked just like one of the countless Maiar, whose death-like sleep had turned into statues. Their face was petrified in a soundless shriek – mouth gaping open, painfully stretched, and hands holding their head. As stilled into an expression of the sheerest fear, the Maiar of Lorien mimicked their Master's own state.   
For Irmo had not awaken from his slumber, and he still laid on his marble bed, concealed by tortuous, shadow-made ivy.   
  


     Irmo's long, unexplained absence had made Namo concerned, to say the least. During the first days, he had simply thought his brother was taken by important matters. It would not be unusual, yet it would be the first time his visits stopped so abruptly.   
Yet Namo had shrugged it away, not paying it much heed. Until all around him, rumours started to be heard.   
Everyone had odd dreams. Terrifying visions, depriving all sleepers of rest and peace. All had nightmares, and far too intense to be ordinary – or Irmo had simply turned cruel and sadistic.   
However, Namo had nothing of the like.   
Not a dream, not a thought that was not his, not even the slightest glimpse of his brother while he slept. How strange was this ?   
  


Irmo usually enjoyed sharing his marvellous work with him – especially nightmares. Namo knew how to enjoy his brother's creations, and to appreciate them in their entirety. He adored his gloomy creativity, his darkly radiant mind that too few knew how to embrace.   
The nightmares Irmo sometimes sent to him – for advice on their improvement or mere approval, always were so _beautiful_. What frightened many others had little effect on Namo, his own mind being far different than any other's. Irmo never missed an opportunity to tell him how greatly he loved his somber mind, the grace and elegance of such morbidity.   
  


There yet was something that frightened Namo. His brother's absence, in mind and body alike. He could not reach Irmo, could not feel his presence in sleep or deep thought. As though he had vanished, leaving behind only a memory.   
  


And Namo was the _only one_ not to get any nightmares. Why he had not reacted earlier, he still wondered. Now guilt ravaged him, haunted his wake and sleep, the thought of his lost brother always at the back of his mind – preying on him, whispering words of bitter blame inside of his skull. It was maddening. His own inner voice was taking Irmo's melody, and it mumbled at his ear, it murmured, it injected blame in his very core.

  
In the Halls an odd shadow had grown, scratching at the walls and moaning mournfully through the corridors, echoes of the Master's own mind.   
This delirium would only stop when Namo reached his brother – he knew it for certain.   
  


So, he had ran to the Gardens.   
He had left the halls in a haste, without a word for his wife or Maiar, not even glancing at his servants, who with baffled expressions stared at him rushing, such hurry never before seen in their Master's person. He had given them no answer, no justification. They needed it not.   
No one had to know why he was running to Lorien, why his heart was racing with his feet's similar speed, why his mind shouted his brother's name.   
  


He himself was quite bewildered by his own demeanor – yet he had no time to ponder upon it. There was no time to lose, and with every second that went by, he knew the situation grew more desperate. He would lose Irmo if he waited just an hour longer, and he could not bear this thought. Though he had no idea how such a thing happened, here it was : Irmo was in danger.   
  


     When he had at last reached the Gardens, a bone-travelling chill had frozen him into place.   
All was dark, cold and silent. All around were scattered statues, that moss and ivy had started covering. It grew on the petrified Maiar's skin and raiment, that had turned to grey stone, as long forgotten tombstones. Their voices yet still resounded, from deep within their cold bodies – a shivering voice, wailing in misery.   
  


Namo had taken a long moment to free himself from his motionlessness, as he had beheld this grim scenery. Life had died in the Gardens, this curse having touched not only the Maiar, but also birds, butterflies, and all that moved.   
Was it too late ?   
  
He had lost no more time. Rushing through the fields of statues, careful not to disturb or push any of them down, he had finally reached Irmo's place of sleep.   
He needed to bring him back – to reason, to reality, to _life_! Though the latter idea wrenched his heart, he had to keep it in mind. For if Irmo had sunk too deep, his brother probably was the only one able to save him.   
But Irmo's little altar was entirely covered by ivy, swallowed whole by the plant. The marble of the construction could hardly be seen, and nothing could come through this dark, green net.   
  
But no matter how perfectly ivy concealed it all – Namo could _feel_ him, just there, behind this sinuous drapery. Irmo was so close, nearly at arm's reach.   
His first thought had been to force his way through the web. He had attempted to part the tightly-knotted branches, to create an aperture wide enough to pass through. Even if he had to be trapped inside, he would at least be with his brother – and by bringing him back, this madness would cease.   
  


Irmo was the key. He governed the Gardens, did he not ? They mimicked his state of mind. By waking up, and taking control again, Lorien would turn back to its initial seeming – and never again would it be so grim, so dark. Namo would not let his brother sink again, for his own good, and everyone's.   
But the plant would not give up, and the leaves cut Namo's hands and face, ragged his hair and robe, pushing him away with unhidden agressivity.   
  
There were not many solutions left to him – the only one was to touch his mind.   
Though the idea of sleeping here, in such an ominous place did not truly appeal to him, Namo had little choice. He would not be gone for long, would he ? Of course, he knew it would take time. Yet certainly not enough for it to become dangerous.   
He was far too optimistic.   
  


So he had sat down, back against a column of black marble, wincing in near disgust as he felt the ivy moving against his skin.

His eyes had quickly shut, and darkness claimed him promptly, drowning him in the same slumber that had swallowed Irmo.   
Namo had slowly slid to the ground, and as hours, then days passed, ivy started covering him too. Time would make of his sleeping shape just one more statue, buried under moss and dust.   
  


 

     Yet in his sleep, he floated.   
Above was an odd light. Unlike Laurelin's and Telperion's, this light was of all colours – and of none at once. It seared him, froze him, stabbed and caressed him, kissed and killed him at the same time. His eyes were open, and even underwater he could see. But this light he perceived as through smoked glass. It was blurred, yet clear...  
Nothing made sense.   
  


There were sounds – or maybe was it just one ? It rumbled below, as a thousand growling animals waiting for him to sink and fall into their maw.   
And above the sound was clear, as a bell that gentle wind made chime. However he felt uneasy at the sound of it, at this light music that echoed of radiant rays, of a searing golden shine that could burn him to ashes. He could feel its warmth, its merciless scalding caress.   
  


And both those musics, as choirs of melting voices, filled his skull with their sorcery. He saw it all, heard it all – all that no one could endure. It was overwhelming.   
Would he even be sane, if he ever woke up ? It was far too much for him to handle. And yet he knew it was what Irmo saw, heard and felt at all times – for Namo was in his brother's mind, a trespasser in this realm of delirium.   
  


It was no wonder Irmo's words seldom made sense, to anyone unsused to him. He spoke in riddles, in abstract constructions. He sometimes would sing, in the middle of a phrase – or not finish it at all. He spoke in colours, in shapes and scents, and all that were not acquainted with his peculiar ways often gave up. For the unknown and the odd always raises more disdain than curiosity.   
  


Namo had to stay focused. He could not allow himself to lose hold, and to drift off – it would be his last mistake. There probably were countless creatures, down below and far above, that only waited to devour his mind. He would be forever lost, floating in this pool of black ink, between wake and slumber. And no one would be able to save Irmo anymore.   
He had to fight this oppressing, maddening atmosphere, and to seek for his brother. There was little chance he could wake up by himself, anyway. He knew only Irmo could bring them both back to the surface.   
  
He thought for a moment, not letting the horrendous light alter his mind.   
Where would Irmo hide ?

Certainly not above the surface, out in the blazing light. He feared this brightness, redoubted to be turned to dust by such shine. Always did he control himself while walking under Laurelin, endeavouring not to shriek in horror-induced pain.   
He favoured Telperion's soft glow, and the calmness it brought along. For what laid in the dark was revealed in its true seeming, and all was different when silver replaced gold, cradling Arda to sleep – and stirring from their slumber all creatures that dreaded the light of day.  
  


No, even in his mind, where _he_ was master of all things, he would not bathe full light. He would be in the dark, hidden in a secret place, safely sleeping alone. He would isolate himself where no one could reach out for him – not Este, not his Maiar. Not even Namo.   
Yet he was there, desperately trying to touch Irmo's mind, not caring if he was being an intruder. Namo was taking risks, he knew it. Yet he minded not.

  
He would drag his brother out of this dangerous sleep, making up for his mistakes, for it was his fault. _All_ was. Namo had been too careless for Irmo's feelings, he had ignored him. And it pained him greatly – both to acknowledge it, and to know Irmo had said nothing about it.   
There was so much he needed to tell him.   
  


Opening his heart was not something Namo was acquainted with. Yet he knew he could do it with Irmo – did his own worries not concern him too ? And there was more than just this – problems. There were feelings, emotions Namo could not understand, and had prefered not to say a word about. Yet it was what had grieved Irmo, for he had concealed his love for him.   
He had to find Irmo, to tell him how greatly he cared for him. His dear little brother. Namo swore to change his way of being – at least with Irmo, when they both would be awake and safe.   
  


There was a murmur, deeper down, beyond the growling pack. As a voice whispering erratic words, maybe even weeping. It was not easy to tell : all was so undistinct, as though shrouded by mist. Even sounds were draped in it, and were distorsed, monstrous, chilling to the bone.   
Namo was not sure whether or not he would find him below. But he had to move, to face the abyss, and to _look_. Perhaps he would lose his mind, lose it all. Yet if it were to find his brother, his own sanity was not such a great price to pay.

  
He shifted, struggling to turn around in the black waters. They had thickened into mud, into something heavy and smothering, that only longed to swallow him whole.   
Yet no matter how threatening things were looking, Namo smiled to himself.   
Why would all become so agressive, so _protective_ , if nothing of interest was below ? He let himself be devoured, drowned into this fathomless abyss, that would lead him to what he searched for. His mind drifted away again, and he did not struggle.   
  


     Never had he thought drowning felt so agonizing. Countless hands were seizing him – his arms, his legs, his wrists and ankles, his throat. And thick, sickening water was flooding his mouth and lungs, replacing all air by boiling pitch. His skull felt crushed, about to explode as he sank ever deeper. There was no sound – only deafening silence.  
Until he heard a voice he knew.   
  


He opened his eyes – yet still was dreaming. All hands and waters had vanished. He now stood on his feet, upon a floor of black marble reflecting his figure.   
But the mirrored image of himself was twisted, abstract. As though someone had tried to draw his mind. He moved a hand, and took a moment to realize his reflection did not imitate him. It only grinned at him, long teeth showing through translucent lips, pointy as icicles.   
Namo looked up, away from this unsettling vision. He was not alone.   
  


Just before him was a shape, grey and dreary, hunched forward. Long, pale hands covered its face, and the entire silhouette soflty shook – it cried. Yet no sound came out of it.   
It was _him._ Could it even be someone else ? Who else than Irmo would dwell there, in the uttermost depths of this realm ?

  
There however was something wrong, _deeply_ wrong. Namo was not welcome here. Not at all. He felt unsafe, about to be devoured by the guardians of this place, for having stepped near the Master. He could hear them – crawling, creeping, moaning and groaning, and they were _just_ behind him. Namo turned his head, glancing above his shoulder in panick.   
Nothing. Only shadows.   
But as he searched for the silhouette again, it had vanished too. He blinked. Mistake.   
For as his eyes swiftly opened again, Irmo was just in front of him, his face inches only from Namo's own.  
  


And a dreadful expression was upon Irmo's features, twisting his handsome face into something unnatural. Tear streaks had dug deep lines into his cheeks. His eyes were circled with a dark shade, and his cracked lips made his breath hiss. His hair was tousled, his nails broken.   
This was not the Master of Dreams, but of Nightmares. And Namo froze in fear before him, this ghastly creature that wore his brother's traits.   
  


His voice came out as a painful sigh, a pale memory of his melodious voice.

 

_What have we here ?_

 

Namo could not move, he was petrified – both by fear, and physically. His feet and legs were taking a grey colour, just as the countless statues he had seen in the Gardens. Would this be his fate too ? He felt his heart racing, panick building up. He tried to speak – he could not. No sound came out of his mouth, not even a whisper. Not even a breath.   
Irmo grinned.  
  


_What owes me the pleasure, Sweet Brother ?_   
  


Those words he pronounced whenever Namo visited him, now were haunted by mockery, by hatred.   
Irmo wound a pale hand around his throat, ragged nails sinking into his flesh. He felt vulnerable, as pliable as clay, as fragile as glass. He knew if Irmo pushed him down, he would shatter and die. He could not speak. So he stared at him, deeply into his eyes, seeking response in their delirious glow.   
  


_How do you feel, Namo ?_   
  
Irmo chuckled, his grin stretching wider.

 

_How is it, tell me ? Not to have control in this dream ?_  
  
He tried to think, to shape words clearly enough for Irmo to hear them. It was the realm of sleep, was it not ?   
Nothing made sense.   
  


''It is no dream,'' Namo shouted in mind. ''You are locked within yourself.''  
  


Irmo froze, not expecting an answer. He tilted his head to a side, narrowing his eyes.   
  


_Are you trying to deceive me ?  
_

Suddenly, Namo broke away from his paralysis. He grabbed Irmo's wrist, who shrieked in shocked surprise. He held his brother tightly in his grasp.   
  


''You need to come back,'' he said, trying not to let anger come through his tone. ''I came to search for you, and you must awake.''  
  


But Irmo started to shake in laughter. He opened wide eyes, and shoved Namo away, howling in insanity as he saw his brother falling down, and a loud _crack_ resounded.   
  
Namo saw his own body broken in a million pieces, as a mere sculpture of glass. He still could see, _hear_ Irmo, whose lunacy did not falter. He was holding his head now, tears running down his cheeks as his hilarity only intensified.   
All started to glow painfully, white light coming out of everything – even from the air itself. Soon Namo was blinded, and deafened by his brother's voice – that had turned into screams of horror.   
  
He felt himself being dragged out from this vision, and to the surface.  
  


 


	5. Arcane Rain Fell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irmo wakes up, and all is fine... maybe.

     All things whirled and howled around Irmo, wrapping him in swirling sounds and shades as he ascended. He felt himself being carried up, with increasing speed and force, until he passed through a wall – a shattering sound, he broke through black waters and white surface, shredding the veil of sleep.   
He sat up as he awoke, inhaling sharp air. Life was coming back to him at once, violently, painfully. He felt it all so suddenly, so ruthlessly. After so long of being deprived of all sensations, of laying motionless and cold, all now assaulted him brutally.   
And around, all things started to awake. The Gardens were free from their numbness, and all slowly was getting back to normal. Scents, sounds, colours – all was alive again, as the Master had come back.   
  


Irmo's entire body pained him. It stung everywhere, it shivered, it trembled. His limbs, bones, muscles, even lungs felt sore. All hurt, everything being far too much to handle, after so long without feeling anything. He remained sat for a long, agonizing moment, slowly taking back control on his physical form.   
It usually was this way when he awoke from long, complex dreams that requiered much energy from him. Yet now, it was even worse.   
Thinking back, Irmo realized he had never felt so weak, so fragile after a dream – no matter how intense it were.   
He stared at his hands, which paleness gradually faded away, taking a much more lively shade. He could feel _life_ being blown into him anew – his skin was warmer, his sight clear again. His blood was flooding his veins again, his heart resuming an ordinary pace.   
This feeling, he hated and cherished it at the same time. It was good to feel alive – yet he knew how lifelessness felt too.   
  


The aching pain in his head was however still there – as a hundread needles burning their way through his skull, and stinging his brain. He cradled his head in his hands for a moment, closing his eyes, trying to master this pain. His back hurt too – probably from having been laying on marble for a such a long time.   
  


_Time._   
Much had passed by, indeed... How long exactly, he knew not – and did not want to. Yet he now felt immensely better. Safe, free from this coffin-like slumber.   
He had been careless. Sinking in sleep as he felt enraged, both at himself and all things – what sort of stupidity had governed him on that moment ? He had given in to his emotions, acting out of selfishness, and he now regretted it. Regretted it greatly.   
He sighed, shaking his head. How silly had he been. He had put himself in danger, letting himself be swallowed by the depths of his own mind.   
And how odd had been the dreams !

  
He remembered seeing his Gardens, all frozen in stone and death. Skies and waters of ink, air of black, suffocating smoke.   
And the rest... The rest had been even worse.   
Namo coming to deliver him from his inner abyss, trying to pull him back to reality. And it had worked.

  
How ridiculous was this. Even in his own realm, where absurdity was Queen and reason the slave, he let his own weakness govern him. He thought himself almighty in his kingdom, yet Namo would always be there to remind him of the truth : he was pitiful, feeble, and could not even master himself.   
He smiled bitterly at this. He unconsciously associated Namo with his inner voice – this little whisper, constantly hissing at him, laughing at his inferiority.   
Why so ? Namo had never openly mocked him. Yet Irmo's doubt was stronger than reality, and he had convinced himself his brother despised him.   
  


Irmo wished not to conquer all things – he was not Melkor. Dominating, enslaving all that lived had never been at the back of his mind. He did not even care if the other Valar underestimated him – he was aware of his own might. Except when in front of Namo.  
All he wanted was acknowledgement, recognition from his brother. Validation, perhaps. He was starved for his words, parched for his approval – even for the faintest smile. He needed him, needed his love, his voice, his mere _look_.   
  


He suddenly felt ashamed. All this madness, those horrendous nightmares, and what for ? Namo's attention ? All of this, for Irmo's miserable _need_ of love. This wicked, tainted, doomed love that should not even exist.   
He _did_ regret it. And once again, he blamed his lack of control, his overflowing emotions. If only he had none.   
  


Irmo swore to himself he would never let it happen again. Torturing others out of personal grief, was not exactly the behaviour a Vala should adopt. He lacked maturity, probably.   
_Irmo the Youngest,_ some called him. _Namo's brother_. Very few adressed him by his title – Master of Dreams, or anything else that would not belittle him.

  
And he had terrified himself, he had to admit it. Sinking into the depths of his own Hell, turning into a nightmare made flesh, and destroying his brother to escape was not exactly something he wished to experience again.   
  


The image of Namo's shattered body, broken by _his_ hands, would haunt him for some time before it became just a memory. He shivered at the thought of it. All those pieces, the look of betrayal upon Namo's features, his despair to help him... And Irmo had mocked him, had spat atrocities to him.  
But it was just a dream, was it not ? The _real_ Namo would not know it. Yet it would not prevent Irmo from despising himself.   
  


A sound, just aside of him, dragged him out of his thoughts.   
It was the rustle of ivy, crawling as snakes on the columns of the temple, slowly taking an ordinary shape again. The thick, unbreakable web untied itself, and as though nothing happened, the plant settled back on the bone-white marble.

  
Irmo let out a relieved sigh, seeing the stone's colour. Outside, all had taken back its usual seeming – the sky glowed with a shade of purple, and tiny dots flickered there, as a thousand flames tickled by the wind. As stars, they formed abstract drawings, which shape changed by Irmo's will.   
  


It truly was relieving. And sounds – sounds were now echoing everywhere, just as before ! Chirping birds, fluttering butterfly wings, the merry trot of deer and rodents in the glades...  
Irmo smiled, feeling his heart warming a bit. He was glad he had not destroyed his own realm – or changed its appearance forever. He even caught glimpses of his Maiar.   
There had been no reason to be worried, in the end.

 

''Irmo ?''

 

He tensed at this voice, coming from his back. Irmo slowly turned his head, looking above his shoulder, and was met with the sight of his brother. Namo stood with difficulty, knees bent and legs shaking. His robe was ragged, his hair tangled, and on his skin were dozens of cuts.   
Irmo's heart sank deep, as he understood it all at once.   
  


His nightmare had been no dream. His Gardens, his Maiar, all things had been exactly as he had seen them. Cold, grey, _dead_.   
Irmo opened his mouth to speak, but his brother came forth, and pulling him to his feet, he tightly embraced him.   
Irmo hugged him back, clinging to him, feeling him _alive_. The memory of his nightmare flashed by his eyes, and he shut them, burying his face in Namo's shoulder. What else could he do ? He could not speak, could not find a word that would justify his cruelty. He had killed him. Irmo had harmed his dear brother, only to free himself.   
  


How could Namo forgive him for this ? Now that he knew about his insecurities, his wish for power and recognition ? Namo had doubtlessly discovered something he did not expect. He probably pitied him even more than before.   
Tears invaded Irmo's eyes, burning shame rolling down his cheeks and wetting Namo's robe. He shook lamentably, clutching his brother's shoulders, sobbing without control.   
He muttered an apology, strangled in his throat. He whispered it erratically, misery overtaking him.   
But Namo held him with gentleness, caressing his hair and back. He kissed his tears-soaked cheeks tenderly, murmuring soothing words.   
  


''How do you feel ?'' He asked in a hushed voice, not to startle Irmo. He resumed his soft kisses, trying to calm him down.   
  


Irmo just nodded, still overwhelmed by waves of sorrow, guilt and shame torturing his heart. He could not understand Namo's demeanor. Why was he not angry at him ? Why did he not show any scorn, any disdain for him, now that he had seen the horrors he could unleash ?

  
Namo gently pushed him away, but cupped his face with both hands, and pressed their foreheads together. He smiled to him. Namo's own eyes somehow glistened. This was an expression Irmo had never seen upon his brother's features.

 

''Are you hurt ?'' he inquired, keeping his tone as soft as he could. He wiped away Irmo's tears with his thumbs, kissed his forehead.   
  


He shook his head.

 

''I am sorry, Sweet Brother. I am so sorry,'' he pitifully moaned, tears gathering in his eyes again. ''For all I have done to you.''

 

Namo frowned.

 

''You did nothing to me,'' he whispered. ''Those cuts are not your fault. All has gone back to normal, there is nothing to apologize for.''

 

Irmo stared at him, bewildered. Had Namo no memory of it ? Of having descended into Irmo's mind, and having attempted to reason his stupid, crazed little brother ?   
Perhaps was it better this way. This nightmare was better concealed, forever hidden and forgotten. Irmo would seal this memory behind the strongest iron doors, never to be seen or heard of again. Never again shall Namo endure such pain, such horrors.   
So he simply smiled, choosing lies over truth.   
  


Namo smiled back, and embraced him again, holding him close and tight. Irmo could feel his pulse beating faster, harder than usual. Was it an _emotion_ , that moved his cold, blank-faced brother's heart ? Was it only possible ? Irmo wound his arms around his neck, and pulled back just a little. He wanted to see his face, to see this smile once more.   
Their eyes locked for a moment.   
  


They were alone, here. No longer concealed by wild ivy, yet there were no eyes to spy on them. Irmo could feel his Maiar – far away. Not around. They would probably come soon, wanting to make sure their Master was alright. Yet for now, not a soul was about.   
Irmo had to stand on his toes, to steal a kiss from his dear brother.   
  
It began chastely, as always. Yet they lacked time. Almost immediately Namo responded, forcing Irmo's mouth open as he made him walk back, until his legs hit the marble bed. Irmo moaned in surprise, not expecting his brother to be so eager. But he struggled not – he wanted him now. Even if they would be unsatisfied, frustrated of not being able to go to the end of it.   
  


Irmo sat on the stone surface, pulling Namo against him. He could feel his brother's body close, so close. All he wanted was for him to push him down on this altar, and ravish him on it. He wanted the Gardens to echo with his pleasured voice, with the music of their blasphemy. It would probably be the end of them, after this. Yet he cared not. After what he had done to him, even if it were a nightmare, Irmo simply wanted to escape it.   
He wanted Namo entirely. His voice, his heart, his body, his love, his _life_. He wanted it all.   
How miserably desperate was he, to wish for such things.   
  
Namo deepened their kiss, gently pulling at Irmo's hair, bending his head backward. His brother wanted it too, he could tell. Perhaps was he just as desperate as he. This thought however immediately vanished – Namo was neither as silly, nor as weak as he was.   
If he reciprocated this desire to have interraction, he certainly was not ready to _die_ for it. No, it was merely playing. But Irmo cared not – as long as he could be with him, touch him, hold him, he would be grateful. He would take anything Namo offered him. Even pain.   
  
Namo broke the kiss, seeing his brother was crying again. He sighed, pressing their foreheads together once more, as they caught their breath. He smiled to him – and Irmo saw _pity_.   
  


''We will have time later,'' Namo said in a whisper. ''You need to rest.'' He looked aside, as though searching for words. ''There are things I must tell you, my Dear. Things I have silenced for too long.''  
  


Irmo stared at him for a long moment, unsure of what he had just heard.   
Namo, telling things ? _Speaking_ to him ?   
At his great shame, he understood his plan had worked.   
For he had initially isolated himself to see whether of not Namo _cared_ , had he not ? And his brother, his Sweet Namo had taken the bait, almost too easily. He _did_ care for him. Irmo had just been too blind to see it. He felt silly once more, not to have understood Namo's silent love, wordlessly spoken to his soul.  
  
 _Stupid thing,_ he thought to himself. Would he ever forgive himself for it ? For having worried Namo, out of starvation for attention, for care ? How long would it take for Namo to understand it, and to hate him ? That would be well deserved.   
He waved it away for now, smiling to his brother.   
  


Namo stepped back, arranging his robe and hair as best as he could – he truly looked awful, all ragged and exhausted. More than usual.   
  


''Go and rest,'' Irmo said gently. ''I promise not to interfere with your sleep.''  
  


His brother gave him a tiny smile, and turned back to leave. But he paused, and spun around, taking Irmo's delicate hand in his own. He bent down, and kissed it longly, cradling it in his own, slender hands. He let go reluctantly, and gave one last glance to Irmo, before he left his temple.   
  


Irmo watched him go, holding his kissed hand to his chest, feeling his heart racing. Namo had looked so... sad. As though he _needed_ to show him how much he mattered to him. His little brother. But Irmo could not convince himself of it – it was impossible.   
No, Namo pitied him, that was all. Or if he had loved him before _this_ , all trace of affection had now departed, being replaced by pity.

  
As he felt his Maiar approaching, Irmo endeavoured to change his face to a more affable one, with no tears or sorrow upon it. He put on a smiling mask, and got on his feet, smoothing his raiment and hair. He turned to his servants, giving them his best, bright smile, ignoring his wailing heart for now.

Yet as the Gardens mirrored Irmo's true feelings, the sky shed tears at his place, crying mournfully for its ailed Master.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will involve smut :3


	6. Abeyance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As always... angst. And smut.

     When Namo crossed the gates of the Halls, the last thing he expected was for Vairë to jump into his arms. He opened wide eyes as he saw her dashing forward, and he gasped in surprise, holding her as she wound her arms around his neck.   
This demonstration of affection was quite unusual. He and his wife did not show off their relationship – they were married, that was all. There was neither passion nor hostility between them. It was friendship, of some kind. Neither of them was showing interest in being too close. They had wedded as by evidence, Eru having made them for each other, as Manwë and Varda. There was not much more to be said.   
He held her nonetheless, until she finally let go of him.   
  


''You were nowhere to be found,'' she said, relief in her voice. ''I was worried, Namo. Are you well ?''  
  


He nodded, giving her a faint smile as he kissed her cheek. Vairë looked at him, inspecting his robe, his hair – and his cuts, at which she frowned.   
  


''What in the Father's name happened to you ?''   
  


He shook his head, sighing deeply. It was far too long to explain.   
  


''Nothing of importance,'' he chose to say. ''I was held back at the Gardens.''  
  


At those words, Vairë stiffened. Irmo made her incomfortable. And though she enjoyed Este's company, whenever she saw her friend's husband, a feeling of uneasiness passed through her bones. He made her skin crawl, her blood turn to ice.   
If many found Namo far more sinister, she thought the utter contrary. Namo was indeed a dark presence, yet he was calm, peaceful. His intentions were clear ; unlike his little brother, whose eyes changed with his mood, whose smile was never the same. One simply had to see the Gardens once, to understand how their Master was. Twisted. Unreliable.   
She nodded, looking down.   
  


''You should take some rest,'' she sighed, changing subjects. ''All has been calm in your absence. Nienna visited, as always. Some others too.''  
  


He frowned. _Others ?_  
  


Vairë saw his expression, and tilted her head.   
  


''They said they had permission to come in,'' she declared. ''To my knowledge, they caused no harm whatsoever.''  
  


Namo pursed his lips. He did not want to already burden himself with new concerns, but it was worth being paid attention to. He minded not Nienna's visits – even if he were to, she would not care. But _others_? What others ?   
  


''Who visited ?'' he mumbled, already redoubting the answer. If his absence had let any unwelcome guest into the Halls, the blame would be on him.   
  


''Tulkas, and some of his Maiar,'' she said matter-of-factly. ''Several times, actually. I had an eye kept on him, but he caused no trouble. Worry not for this,'' she smiled, as to comfort him.   
  


He nodded, uneasy. There was something wrong, and he knew it. Why would have Tulkas waited for him not to be there anymore ? He knew perfectly well that he was forbidden access in the Halls. Yet it had been decided in secret, between him, Namo and Manwë. Noone of them wanted rumors to be spread – why would Tulkas be denied access ? What had he done ? Of course, it was to protect Melkor. Yet as many resented for the Dark Vala, this justification would only have risen protest. So they had kept it secret.   
Maybe he should have told Vairë. Yet upon his departure, he had nothing in mind but his brother's safety. Melkor's was the last of his concerns.   
  


He told her he would deal with it later, and she nodded sadly. She visibly wanted to spend more time with him, to care for him, even only a bit. But she also knew he needed nothing more than solitude and calm, and she let him go, watching him until his silhouette vanished in the blackness of the Halls.   
She stood before the open gates, sighing deeply. She could already feel the atmosphere lightening – as much as the Halls of the Dead could. Vairë smiled, glad to see her husband returning.   
  


 

     As Namo walked fast through the corridors, eager to finally be in the dark tranquility of his quarters, some of his Maiar already required his attention on some matters. They were visibly just as relieved as Vairë, even though their way of demonstrating it was far less tactile – thankfully. Some followed him, arms full of scrolls and scribbled sheets, mumbling uncertainly as they tried to obtain their Master's attention.  
Yet he paid them none, acting as though he did not hear them. He usually always took those matters at heart. But now was not the right moment, and all he wanted was silence. So he ignored them, and reached at last his room, which door he slammed shut.   
  


He needed nothing but darkness. _His_ darkness. Not this growling, threatening presence of Irmo's mind, this obscurity full of crawling creatures that preyed on him and his sanity.   
He remembered every moment of it – sinking, drowning, shattering. Yet he had chosen to silence it in front of his brother, whose guilt already was heavy enough. There was no need to further burden him with this. No, Namo had made the right choice by keeping it for himself. Irmo would never know.   
  


He rested his forehead against the cold, dark wood of his door, listening to the nothingness around him. He slowly exhaled, finally feeling at peace – and safe.   
Namo had not wanted to leave his brother. He could tell when Irmo was not fine, no matter how much effort he put into his mask-like expressions. And upon that moment, Irmo had _not_ been well.

How could he, after all ?   
After having been asleep for so long, and so close from drowning forever, no one would be feeling alright.   
  


Irmo was fragile – though it was something Namo would never say to him. He needed protection. Yet, how could he admit such a thing ? Irmo always felt inferior, and he trusted him with his whole heart. If Namo were to express his concern regarding his state of mind, he would obviously lose Irmo's trust – and affection.   
All he wanted was to hold him close, wrapping him in comforting shadows as he would kiss him softly, giving him the care his aching heart needed.   
  


Namo had seen the depths of his mind, seen the pain that was hidden down below. Such anguish, such sorrow... There was so much more to him, the Master of Dreams, than most thought. There was fear, doubt. Hate, perhaps.   
He had to talk to him, to at least _try_ to make things better. Or just to make up for his cold, distant behaviour – which he had little control over. Yet for Irmo, he felt he could change. Just for him, just in his company.   
But now, he just needed to rest.   
  


 

    He quickly fell asleep, all he had seen and lived in Irmo's mind overwhelming him. His brother was merciful – he gave him no visions. Only blackness, silent and enjoyably cold. No whisper to madden him, no strange creature to prey on him. He saw nothing, heard nothing. At least for a moment.   
  


Little by little, he felt someone approaching. He saw a shape, slender and shimmering in silver, enlighting the darkness. Yet this form was not blinding. Namo sighed in relief, seeing his brother – and not this _monster_ , this embodiment of nightmare he had met earlier.   
He tentatively reached out, and took Irmo's hand, kissing it again – just as he had done before, in the Gardens.   
  


The Gardens – they were in them. At the exact same place as before, near Irmo's bed of marble. And all looked so fair ! Yet no fairer than Irmo himself, who had lost all exhausted and miserable seeming. He was beaming, with joy and light-heartedness, his smile more radiant than any fire – and soft, so much softer than consuming flames. Yet a blaze awoke in Namo's heart, as his brother came forth and embraced him.   
For a moment they remained this way, in each other's arms, cradling one another. The wind was humming around them, rustling the leaves, murmuring at their ears. A music which softness would not linger – for it echoed of their passion, and a symphony it would become.   
  


Namo closed his eyes, enjoying each moment as best as he could. The peaceful presence of his dear little brother, the calmness of the Gardens – all was almost innocent. Yet even if it was embelished, neither of them believed into the purity of the place. For they were there, spreading their wickedness, tainting all pristinity.   
  


He cupped Irmo's face, pressing their foreheads together. Namo looked at his eyes – so deep, so beguiling. An abyss of all colours, in which he would not mind drowning. There were so many emotions, upon Irmo's features. Joy, pain, sorrow – all at once. He never knew what Irmo thought, what he truly had in mind. He was not as easy to read as all thought. Yet Namo knew he could wipe all those emotions away, and replace them with only one – desire.   
  


He tilted Irmo's chin up, pulling him into a passionate kiss – just as before. He wanted to resume exactly where they had stopped.   
Oh, he had wanted him, on that moment. He had felt all doubt vanishing, flying away as his burning desire for Irmo had taken over. He wanted to arouse this same passion again, and to let it consume them both. For here, he would not have to hold back.   
Irmo responded eagerly, burying his delicate hands in Namo's hair, moaning as he deepened the kiss.   
Irmo pulled him closer, walking back until he could sit on the marble surface. He too, wanted it all as before.   
  


This moment had lingered in the minds of them both, and fantasies had been born – what they could have done. Reality had been suspended, and Namo knew he had wanted to isolate himself and rest, only to meet his brother in thought.   
He wanted him. Needed him. Perhaps now was not the best moment to talk. It was the moment to _show_ him how greatly he mattered to him. So he resumed exactly where they had stopped.   
  


Namo pushed him down on the altar, watching his hair of pearly white spilling on the marble, a pale river all veiled by light, spectral colours mirrored in Irmo's mane. He lost no time, and bent down on his brother, ravenously kissing his neck.   
He heard Irmo sigh softly as he left a dark bruise on his creamy skin, the first mark of their blasphemous union. Irmo caressed his hair as to encourage him, moaning quietly as his brother moved his kisses near his ear, sending pleasant shivers through his entire being.   
Even his essence seemed to tremble in delight, glowing blissfully in response to his brother's ministrations.   
As though they were meant to be there, so close, about to merge with each other.   
Namo knew each sensitive area of Irmo's skin, every little zone that he could lick, kiss, bite softly to make him shiver without control, and to elicit delicious moans from him.   
He knew how to make him sing, and though he could unleash Irmo's voice to screams of crazed pleasure, he also knew how to make him hum, until he lost himself in a gently brought peak.   
  
Irmo let him toy with him, enjoying every kiss, every touch of sweet, coal-black lips upon his skin. He closed his eyes, feeling his body responding far too eagerly to his brother's delicate game, all directed to undo him completely.   
A few more seconds passed before Irmo made a gesture of his hand, and their raiment vanished, revealing their bare skin.   
Namo eyed him slowly, detailing his ethereal beauty. Irmo could almost feel the caress of his eyes, descending from his parted lips to his neck, brushing at his chest, and trailing down, ever _down_. He could barely hold back a moan, seeing his handsome brother devouring him so shamelessly.   
  


Namo looked up at him, giving him a faint, yet almost naughty smile. He came down on him again, claiming his mouth and invading it, parting his soft, welcoming lips with expertise.   
Irmo held him close, wrapping his arms around his chest, fingernails gently grazing at his brother's pallid skin. He whimpered in their kiss, feeling it all overtaking him.   
So many emotions were melting as one, his fear and sorrow, his guilt, his shame and _joy_ to be there, so gloriously sprawled underneath Namo.   
  


He wanted to smile, laugh, cry, scream, all at once while Namo would take him whole. He responded with passion, whining and sobbing, tears gathering in his eyes again. He did not want to cry – not now, not here ! But it all was far too overwhelming, and Namo was being so gentle, so caring with him... He simply wanted to break, and let Namo put him back together.   
No, he already was broken. All he needed was for Namo to see it, and either crush him to nothingness, or fix this billion of pieces he had become.  
  


Of course Namo saw this sudden change in his brother, and he broke the kiss, caressing Irmo's cheek with tenderness. He sighed, kissing his wet cheeks – and with such gentleness !   
Once more, Irmo had difficulty to understand. He was despisable, weak. Yet Namo would never resolve himself to push him away for good. He was far too kind – and his pity for his ridiculous little brother had no limit.   
Irmo covered his face with his hands, sobbing miserably.   
  


''I am so sorry,'' he moaned. ''For all I have done, and still do to you.''  
  


Namo shook his head, and carefully took away Irmo's fine hands, giving him a reassuring smile.   
  


''You did nothing to me,'' he said softly. ''I, did. I should have been more careful.''  
  


Irmo opened wide eyes, both in surprise and horror. His plan, his monstrously manipulative plan had worked, and now Namo felt guilty.   
He had not even considered the idea Namo would be worried for him. His opinion of his brother truly was poor, to lead him to think such things. He sickened himself with his twisted mind, and his unrelenting need for attention. He had put himself in danger just to be saved, and he knew he could have done even worse, only to have Namo worry about him.   
How far could he go ?   
  


''You do not understand,'' Irmo sighed, shivering. ''It was not what you think.''  
  


Namo frowned. He cupped his cheek, looking deeply into his sad, oceaned eyes.   
  


''I thought I had lost you,'' he said gravely. ''When I saw your Gardens, this _hell_ by your sorrow risen, I knew I had a part in it.''   
  


He paused, and Irmo stared at him, heart racing, tears difficultly held back. Those were exactly the words he wished to hear, were they not ? _Monster,_ he thought to himself. He had never seen Namo this way – tortured by emotions he had probably never felt.   
  


''I could never forgive myself, if anything were to happen to you,'' he resumed in a hushed voice. ''I need you, Irmo. I cannot exist without you.''  
  


Irmo let his tears run free again. Such pain, such wrenching effort in Namo's voice ! He was tearing his own heart out, laying it bleeding and bare at Irmo's feet. He had forced him to inflict such violence upon himself, had forced him to feel and to speak. Two things Namo never did – not because he refused to, but because he _could not._   
  


He saw his usually so cold, so mastered brother in pieces, eyes fixed in nothingness, heart thumping inside his chest – Irmo could _see_ it beneath his skin, see the erratic pulse.   
He reached up, tilting Namo's face towards his own.   
What could he say ? Nothing. He had said enough, caused him enough hurt. So he pulled him into a kiss again, letting all words die.   
  


Namo responded with a low, strangled moan, his long fingers clenching in Irmo's hair, holding him tightly in their kiss.   
He felt awful, disgusted of himself for making him suffer so greatly. Irmo clung to him, winding his arms around his neck, bringing him as close as he could. He could feel his cold, yet soft skin against his own, his pulse beating madly into his own chest.   
Namo's kiss was desperate, as though he were afraid to lose him once more. Irmo closed his eyes, giving in to this soft, yet tears-soaked kiss, for Namo's own were rolling on Irmo's cheeks, their sorrow and pain melting as one.   
  
Irmo had wanted this moment to be a rough, ruthless punishment, to let Namo own and massacre his body with all the rage he had. For was it not what should have happened ? He had terrorized his brother, had nearly killed him, had made him worried for naught.   
  


It was not Namo, that should feel sorry and miserable – it was him ! The Master of _nonsense_ , of grief and hurt. He was unworthy of it all. Of his brother's sweet kisses, of his gentle caresses, of his soft, far too soft motions as he took him, giving bitter pleasure to his depraved body.

  
Irmo sickened himself with his moans of delight, with his uncontrolled voice as Namo led their slow, lascivious dance to heavenly heights.   
He tied his legs around his waist, moving his own hips at the rhythm his brother gave – far too tender, a too enjoyable punishment. Perhaps this, was his retribution. To hate himself as Namo treated him so deliciously, tasting guilt and pleasure as one.   
  


Irmo held him close, with arms and legs wound around him, moaning lustfully in his ear. He heard every sigh, every little sound Namo let out, his low, sultry voice carrying him to his peak.   
Irmo's voice rose in higher whimpers, and in screams as he was thrown over the edge, mind blank, and eyes flooded with tears. He did not feel him as Namo hit his own release with one final thrust, painting new evidence of blasphemy upon Irmo's skin.   
  
But all around them the scenery was changing, for Irmo was drifting off, and lost control of the dream. He moaned Namo's name weakly, caressing his cheek as all faded away, into nothingness.   
As after every of their moments only an abyss remained, and cold, skeletal fingers groping at their hearts, reminding them of their loneliness.   
  
In the Gardens and in the Halls, both shed tears of guilt and sorrow, silently wishing to hold the other closely in a warm, loving embrace.

 


	7. Silver Silk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nienna convinces Namo to talk to their brother.   
> ...The calm before the storm, perhaps :)

     It was good to see the Halls had taken their ordinary appearance back.   
In Namo's absence, the Halls of Mandos had started crumbling. The ceilings and floors showed cracks that were spreading fast, as the Master was away from his dwelling place – and most likely in danger. For the entire time Namo had been away, a feeling of anguish even deeper than usual had settled. All Maiar were lost, not knowing what to do, how to act. Some wished to look for their Master. Others insisted he would be back promptly. So nothing had been decided, and all souls were waiting, as despair slowly settled in their hearts.   
Now the Halls had lost their grim seeming, and though the Maiar still were startled by their own shadow – some things hardly changed –, things had gotten back to normal.   
  


Nienna was relieved to behold this positive change. Coupled with the disappearance of the horrendous nightmares that haunted everyone's sleep, it seemed things were finally moving in the right way.   
It was funny, how both her brothers were affected by each other's sate of mind. When one was unwell, the other immediately felt it – no matter how futile the uneasiness truly was. It was almost as though they shared a part of their mind, and that all emotions were felt by them both.   
There was a special bond, between them – which was not surprising. Eru had made them brothers after all, and in His mind, they were even closer than Manwë and Melkor.

 

The Feanturi completed each other, and though the differences they presented were noticeable, Nienna did not find them to be so contrasted. Neither of them was all light, or all dark. Irmo had a shard of blackness in his soul, just as Namo was touched by light – though very few could understand it. Too many stopped at their physical appearance, and made there a silly mistake.   
Yet recently, everyone had been allowed to have a taste of Irmo's dark side.   
  


No one asked questions about nightmares, no matter how intense they could be. At most, they showed Irmo their disapproval, glared at him in upsetness. Never did they openly come to him, demanding him to cease his experiments.   
Lately however, many had been ready to personally go up to the Master of Dreams, and tell him to stop his madness. For the nightmares had been far too unusual, horrifying and twisted, as though Irmo had decided to unleash the darkest designs he had in store, and to torture all sleepers in their resting hours.   
  


Nienna had thought of going to the gardens herself, and persuade her little brother to make the nightmares stop. For she could tell the difference, even subtle, between experiments and a sheer call for help. Yet as she had closened to Lorien, she had felt Namo's presence there, and had given up.   
She had been relieved to know he was there, attending to their brother. In comparison, her own attempts to reason Irmo would have been ineffective. She trusted Namo with his safety, and investigated no further.   
Instead she had went to the Halls, to at least make sure all was fine.   
  


Now that all had got back to normal, there were matters she had to discuss with Namo – about their young brother.   
Though Nienna's bond with him was by far weaker than Namo's, she knew something was wrong with him. And if _she_ was concerned, her elder brother obviously was too – and certainly far more. Irmo needed to be taken care of. To be looked after, though he would probably find it belittling – yet had they any other choice ? He had demonstrated uncapacity to handle himself, and though Nienna disliked mothering him, she could make an exception. She had no desire to see her little brother fall into madness.   
Yet he would probably pay her no attention – or not enough to take her concern to heart. However, if it were Namo who went up to him... it could be different.   
She had to persuade him.   
  


Nienna walked to the door of Namo's study, at the end of a long, dimly-lit corridor of black stonewalls. She always drank in the sight of Mandos – such a majestuous, yet sober place. It was calm, cold and dark, and truly had a soothing atmosphere. The candelabra lit with silver flames were of elegantly wrung iron, which stems took tortuous shapes, as a skeletal hand that reaches out. She enjoyed seeing all the detail put in the stern ornamentation of Mandos.   
Namo kept things unextravagant, yet impressive. It was nothing like the Gardens – yet there was a similar feeling to it, and an eerie atmosphere that testified of the brothers' special bond.   
  


She stood before the carved wooden door, listening closely.   
It was calm, inside. She could hear the sound of a quill scratching the surface of a parchment, and the low, deep breathing of her brother.   
She had a good ear, this she had to recognize. But all was so tranquil in the Halls that one could hear all things, even the faintest, with surprising easiness.

  
Namo probably knew she was there. Though her footsteps were silent – for she walked barefoot and as lightly as a wraith, Namo knew of everyone's presence in his place. This instinct usually was enough to keep unwanted visitors away... and to attract them, whenever he was gone.   
She pursed her lips. Now was not the moment to think of _this_.   
Nienna gently knocked on the door, warning her brother she was about to enter. He certainly knew it already, yet it was no reason to forget good manners.   
  
The door creaked open, and she slipped through it, clicking it shut behind her. She stayed where she was for a moment, watching the room.   
It was just as elegant as the entirety of the Halls. Its ceiling was however lower, and shelves filled with scrolls and papers of all kinds climbed up to it, as though supporting the heavy stone. There was a fireplace, in which burnt silver-coloured fire, that gave off neither warmth nor smoke.   
  


Namo was sat at an imposing desk, of dark wood and silver ornaments. There were piles of parchments, neatly organized in tall towers at each end of the table, and a candelabrum was set in the middle of them, providing light to Namo's work.   
His features were enlighted from below, giving him an unsettling seeming, though Nienna was quite used to it. She was amazed by such attention brought to detail in Mandos. Though many found Irmo and his Gardens to be extravagant, Namo could be quite fancy as well. It was just another way of demonstrating his exiquisite taste for dark elegance.   
Two Maiar were standing on each side of the desk. One was discussing with their Master in a hushed voice, reading notes from a crumpled sheet he held in his bony hands. He gave her a glance, and Nienna read on his lips.   
  
_Your sister is here, Master._   
  


Namo lifted his head towards her. They exchanged a look, and he nodded to his Maiar to leave them. They gathered their belongings in a hurry, yet with precise movements, and without a sound. Nienna watched them – their ethereal forms covered by dark veils, their skin pallid, and eyes empty. Quite similar to their Master, Nienna had always thought. But they lacked his majesty, his prestence very few could equal.   
The two Maiar bowed slightly as they passed before her, one of them giving her a timid smile. She smiled back, and the Maia blushed, covering her pale face with her long hand. Nienna shook her head, finding their shyness endearing.   
  
She waited for Namo to organize his scrolls and other items before she went to him. His obsession for order could sometimes prevent him from listening, or even from paying any attention to the person nearby. Once he got up, she walked up to him.   
  


''Good day, Brother,'' she greeted him.   
  


He nodded as to say the same.   
  


''I hope I am not interrupting you ?''  
  


''You are not,'' he mumbled. ''Is there something you wanted from me ?''  
  


She gave him a small nod, and looked aside. Namo waited for her to find her words.   
She had pictured it to be far easier. It was not so complicated, was it ? To simply ask him to watch over Irmo, and not to let him sink again. Yet being so direct would probably tense this cordial exchange, and she wished not to argue with him. But was there even a way to word it with tact ?   
  


''I will go straight to the point,'' she sighed, not seeing any way to take the matter with care. ''It concerns Irmo.''  
  


At her words, Namo tensed.   
Had something happened to him again ? It could not be ! He had heard nothing, seen nothing, _felt_ nothing. But Nienna shook her head, seeing his sudden change of expression.   
  


''He is safe,'' she ensured him. ''At least he is now. It hardly was the case until recently, if I am not mistaken.''  
  
Ah. There it was. Namo shrugged.   
  
''There is indeed no need to worry anymore, Sister. He is alright.''  
  


But she tilted her head to a side, frowning slightly. Her expression was always odd this way, her browless forehead wrinkling strangely when she appeared irritated, or confused.   
  


''You seem very sure of your assumption,'' she declared with surprise. ''You are, after all, the only one who can decipher him. He is good at concealing – and at deceiving. But taking his words for truth would be a mistake, Namo.'' She paused, seeing him looking away. ''I know the two of you are close,'' she resumed in a softer tone. ''Closer than anyone could imagine. Yet I worry for him as well – he is my little brother too.''  
  


There was a moment of silence. Namo could obviously not deny the facts she presented to him – he knew of Irmo's capacity to lie, of his remarkable skill for hiding how he felt behind fake smiles and chiming laughter. And he indeed knew him far better than anyone else. However the true extent of Nienna's knowledge worried him, and he hoped she knew nothing _more_ about them.   
  
He gestured her to sit before the fireplace, in one of the armchairs. She thanked him with a nod and sat down, crossing her hands under her chin as she watched the silver flames. Namo rapidly went to check if no one was spying on them – this was a confidential talk, after all. The last thing he wanted was Irmo to show up unexpectedly, and overhear their conversation about him.   
He perhaps was too careful.   
  


Namo went to sit down as well, finding his sister staring into the flames. Grandiose sceneries seemed to be drawing themselves into the silver glare, reflecting in her translucent eyes.   
  


''I worry for Irmo,'' she declared in a sigh, not looking away from the fire. ''I guess the two of us always have, even when it was not necessary. Yet you must recognize that lately, he is worth our concern.''  
  


Namo nodded without a word. He wanted to let her talk. Plus, it was good to hear someone else paying attention to Irmo, for once. He truly thought he was alone sometimes, to worry so much for his little brother. The well-being of the Master of Dreams was far too often overlooked, for no one seemed to deem it important. It however was not surprising from Nienna. She was indeed her sister, yet also the Vala of compassion. She felt for everyone, and her sympathy had no limit.   
  


''All the nightmares we had lately,'' she resumed. ''You must recognize they were unusual.''  
  


Namo muttered a _yes_ , though he had been spared such horror. He still could not understand why Irmo had kept him away from it, yet he was thankful. However the things he had seen in the depths of Irmo's mind probably were far worse than mere nightmares, and he almost wished his brother had sent some to him as well. He shivered at the memory, but chose not to speak about it. Nienna needed not knowing it.  
  


''I was worried too,'' he said. ''This is why I went looking for him in his Gardens. I feared something had happened.''  
  


Nienna frowned.   
  


''Something _did_ happen,'' she corrected him, pursing her lips. ''This is what I want to know, Namo. Something happened to Irmo, and he suffered from it – and probably still does.''   
  


He sighed deeply. Of course, he could hide nothing from her. Nienna was far from being an idiot, and she could read in him as in a book.   
She could tell when she was being lied to, and few dared trying. Namo would not risk himself to do it, especially if it concerned Irmo. She just wanted to help, after all. He could share his concern with her, and together they could find solutions to help their little brother. Was it not the role of the elders ? They had to protect him – even if it were from himself.   
He searched for his words for a moment.   
  


''Irmo had lost control,'' he confessed. ''I retrieved him from the depths he had sank into, and I was almost too late. He had let himself be submersed by his power.''   
  


Nienna nodded, as though she expected such an answer.   
  


''You took the good decision when you went to look for him,'' she smiled. ''A little longer, and we could have lost him. Yet it is not over.''  
  


Seeing his eyes widening, she held up her hand, shaking her head.  
  


''He is alright, as I said before. And it would be good if he remained so, do you think not ?''  
  


''What do you want from me ?'' Namo hissed, slowly starting to lose his patience.   
  


''I want to you _talk_ to him,'' she declared. ''He will listen to you, if you use the right words. Irmo needs someone by his side, someone he can trust – or else he will lose control again. Not that I think ill of Este,'' she shrugged. ''But you are the only one he will truly listen to. Make him understand he needs help.''   
  


It was far easier to say than to actually do.   
How could he say this to Irmo, without risking to upset him ?   
Namo could not simply go to his little brother, and bluntly tell him he needed assistance to handle himself. It however was the sad truth – Irmo could not take proper care of himself. The dreams he created were just as he was – out of control and knowing no limits.   
Irmo craved control and recognition, and if Namo had no doubt on his potential, he had serious ones on the notion of control. Irmo never resisted to the flow of his creativity, and let it consume him whole.   
He could manipulate the thoughts and dreams of the sleepers. Yet he had no control over himself.   
  


However Irmo already felt immensely inferior. When Namo would tell him he needed help, and protection from himself, his hatred towards himself would only increase, and he would probably lose trust in his brother.   
But Nienna was right. They could take no risk of losing him again.   
  


''I will do what I can,'' he muttered, eyes lost in the frozen flames.   
  


He saw Nienna getting up, and he gave her a glance. She smiled at him.   
  


''I know how hard is what I ask of you. But deep within, you were expecting someone to tell you to do it, did you not ?'' She paused, seeing her brother's unresponsiveness. ''Irmo loves you. He will listen to you.''  
  


Nienna's choice of words made his heart jump, and his eyes shot up to her. He forced himself to smile as naturally as he could – which was more of a grimace than a genuine smile, as to dissimulate the sudden emotion that took hold of him.   
  


''I hope he will,'' he said.   
  


His sister knelt down beside his armchair, and tilted his chin to her. Her eyes were filled with sympathy, as always.   
  


''Next time you plan on leaving the Halls,'' she whispered. ''Tell me. I want to make sure the place is guarded – and that _everyone_ is safe in your absence.''   
  


He muttered a _yes_ , unproud of his previous hasty departure. Things had happened while he was gone. Things that should never have occurred – and that had to remain secret. It would stay between those it concerned, and never leave the Halls.

 

Nienna kissed his cheek as to bid him goodbye, and she got to her feet, before walking silently to the heavy door. Namo watched her go, and as soon as the door clicked shut, he buried his face in his long, pale hands.

  
If _she_ were to worry, the situation truly was desperate. He felt his heart and chest clenching, tightening as he thought of his little brother.   
Did Irmo truly deserve such a thing ? Did he really deserve to be told he was weak, silly and immature ? The mere idea of saying to Irmo he needed to be helped made his stomach turn. He could already see the look of betrayal on his brother's face, self-loathe building up until it would swallow him whole, drowning this little dream in an abyssal nightmare once more.   
Irmo trusted him with his entire heart. If he misunderstood what Namo wished to tell him, he would obsess himself with the idea of his weakness, and it would destroy him. Perhaps had it already started.  
  


But he had to do it. He knew it was right, though it was a tough thing to say – and even tougher to hear. Namo could not let his dear little brother sink into misery and horror again.   
The last time he had seen him, Irmo's smile was so mocked Namo had _felt_ it. Irmo was definitely not alright, though he _swore_ he was, forcing a joyful mask upon his sad features.   
This journey into Irmo's inner Hell had marked them both, but it had of course impacted Irmo the greatest.   
He still felt guilty of his actions, and it would take time before he got over them.   
Namo only had to be tactful with him, and to choose his words with care.   
  


He stayed sat for a bit longer, pondering upon what he would tell his brother. His eyes were lost in the flickering fire, which long, silver flames reminded him of Irmo's silky hair, so soft under his hands. He smiled, his mind wandering away to his dear little Dream. He could not lose him. Without him, his existence would be mere survival.

 


	8. Death - Pierce Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irmo haunts his brother's sleep... not in a pleasant way.

     In the calm darkness of his room, Namo had finally found sleep. It had taken a long time for his mind to relax, and to stop focusing on his brother's case. He had been pondering on dozens of ways to talk to him, on how to bring the matter about. Yet in the end, only honesty would be effective, and he knew Irmo would probably value this too. He simply had to tell him what was on his heart. That he cared for him, and that he wanted to help – in any way Irmo would see fit. What mattered was that Irmo understood he needed assistance ; forcing it on him would be no use.   
  


He had made up his mind. As soon as he would wake up, he would go to the Gardens, and talk to Irmo. He had been waiting long enough.   
But sleep had forced itself upon him, and though he took a long time to drift off, he felt he needed to rest. He could not take this matter lightly, and if he had to talk with Irmo, he prefered it to be with a clear mind. It was about his brother's sanity, after all.   
  


When he finally fell in slumber, it was black and cold, devoid of dreams. Not a single vision. He was standing in black smoke, or floating in a sea of ink – he could not tell. Neither his feet nor his back could feel a surface underneath. But a thoughtless dream as all good for him. At least, his mind would be as clear as possible when he woke up.   
But he was constantly half-waking up, his thoughts still tormenting him. Drifting away completely was not easy. He could hear his own thoughts, as narrated by his own voice, and somewhere in the distance was Irmo's – weeping, or laughing. Nienna's voice was there too.

  
_He loves you_ , she said.

  
So many voices at once, swarming words and sounds, all hissing and moaning mournfully.   
This shapeless bulk of growling nonsense reminded him far too much of Irmo's nightmare. He started to feel uneasy, his heart quickening in response.   
In complete darkness, that he usually found to be reassuring, he now felt threatened. But he was alone, was he not ? In his dream and in his room alike, there was no soul to trouble him.   
  


Or maybe was he simply blind. This thought made his heart miss a beat. At any moment he could open his eyes, and find himself faced with nameless horrors. Perhaps even the Nightmare itself – this distorsed copy of his brother. He could not convince himself it _really_ was Irmo. But it was not entirely unlikely, for between dreams and nightmares, only a thin line existed. And it was easy to cross it.   
  
Irmo's dark appearance still haunted him, creeped at the back of his mind, moved at the corner of his eye when he was alone. This image of hatred and sorrow, that had already killed him once, could always hide itself somewhere in his dreams.   
  
In any case, he had to wake up. This state of in-between was no good, it brought him only doubt and unrest. Yet somehow, it seemed to him he already _was_ awake, and that he was only imagining things.   
He opened his eyes, and saw only blackness. Of course. It was his room, after all.   
Namo tried to move. He rose a hand with difficulty, as though he was swimming through thick, smothering waters. With great effort he brought it to his face, feeling his cold skin, his hair, and his hand fell on the mattress near his head.   
  


He could not move anymore. Not that he was frozen – it seemed he had no strength left. There was a pressure on his wrist, as though something was holding it down.   
Breathing became hard. His ribcage was heavy, _so_ heavy. And his heart struggled beneath, just as his lungs, fighting off this crushing pressure. There was something atop of him. It immobilized him, pressed him down on the bed.   
Panicking would be of little use. He needed to control himself, not to let it all overwhelm him. It probably was a trick of his mind – he just was half-awake, that was all.   
  


Namo breathed slowly, as deeply as this weight allowed him to. But as he inhaled, and exhaled, a scent started to come to him. A strong, yet distant smell of withered flowers, of rotting fruit. The stench of decay.   
His heart started to thump in his chest, and cold sweat covered his skin. He could not move at all. Whatever was preying on him had trapped him, and he was at its mercy. He could not lift a finger. Could not move his lips.   
  


Suddenly, he heard something. A creaking sound, as a door that opens – and that slammed shut a second after. He saw nothing, the darkness still was utter – and it probably was better this way.   
A draught caressed his face. It was a frozen, cutting touch to his skin, as a teasing blade preparing to pierce him. Then, came a breathing sound. A hissing, yet regular one, just atop of him.   
The smell changed, turning from decay to blossom, as a thousand flowers opening on a morning of spring.   
And light appeared, envelopping the shape above him in a soft silver glow. This very shape that sat across his chest, and crushed him down.

 

He saw a hundred shades, from translucent to deep steel, and a mane of pearly white descending on an elegant figure, clad by diaphanous wings only.   
  


_Irmo,_ he tried to call.   
  


But no sound would go past his lips, and only a sigh came out.   
His brother looked down at him with a satisfied smile. His gracious face should have relieved him – he came to deliver him from this nightmare, did he not ? But there was neither compassion, nor kindness upon Irmo's features. Only an amused expression as he tilted his head to a side, his smile stretching wider.   
  


''I cannot hear you, Sweet Brother,'' he chuckled.   
  


Irmo stared at him with half-lidded eyes, one long finger absently tracing his own lips. Namo focused on this small movement, captivated as a moth by a flame. His little brother seemed to see it. He started caressing down his neck, his collarbone, and his chest, still having Namo's entire attention. He then brought his hand to Namo's own neck, but he hissed in pain at the touch.  
Irmo's finger was frozen, and its caress was as an icicle's, about to rip his thin skin open.

He tried to protest, but his voice was extinct, and nothing but a long sigh came out.   
Irmo's laughter chimed, as he palmed Namo's throat.   
  


''What is it, my Dear ?'' his eyes lit up with sadistic enjoyement. ''Are you unable to move ?''  
  


Namo wanted to shove him away, and to lock himself up in his room, _alone_. Irmo was terrifying, his cold cruelty untamed and about to grow worse – he could feel it. Even if he were not to sit on his chest, Namo would be petrified by fear. He was at Irmo's utter mercy once more, and he could not escape.   
  


Irmo leant down, laying a chaste kiss on his lips. The pressure on Namo's chest was only made worse, and he thought he was going to explode. Irmo's tongue slipped into his mouth, invading it as he sucked out his breath, feeding on his despair.   
He groaned in pain as he felt Irmo's nails sinking into his chest. And the horror continued, as his brother's tongue turned into a snake-like blade, ripping the insides of his mouth, gorging blood down his throat.   
Namo felt his lungs burning, his heart thumping. He was drowning, suffocated by this fatal kiss.  
Irmo chuckled as he withdrew. Namo saw no blood on his brother's lips, neither could he feel it in his mouth anymore. He felt nothing else but this pressure again.   
  


He looked up at Irmo, uttery lost. What had just happened ? He still could not talk, could do nothing but breathe – with great difficulty. Their eyes locked for a moment, before Irmo's face twisted in a grin, and he broke out in laughter.   
Irmo rose up from his brother's chest, releasing him at last. He got on his feet, staggering as he howled his euphoria out.   
  


Namo immediately sat up, catching his breath, feeling his lungs finally working properly. He closed his eyes for a moment – just the time to breathe normally again. But something seemed wrong. He could no longer hear Irmo's crazed laughter, neither did he feel his presence anywhere. He opened his eyes, and saw no more of his little brother.   
  


He cradled his head in his shaking hands, his entire body trembling.   
What had just happened ? What was that ? It was a dream, it must be. It _had_ to be. Yet he still could feel contusions where Irmo had sat, this crushing weight about to crack down his ribcage. And the sensation of his razor kiss, the taste of blood, the stinging pain... And the _scent_! Irmo's own delicate perfume, of young flowers and morning dew, usually so comforting...  
Namo shivered, suddenly taken by cold terror. He needed some light.  
  


But as soon as the thought of _light_ came to him, another idea wormed its way into his mind. What if in the absence of darkness, he caught a glimpse of _something_ , a creature which frightened by the light, would hurry up and hide wherever it could ? Or – even worse, what if some crooked, twisted figure already was looking at him, waiting only to jump on him and devour him whole, leaving him no time to scream ?   
  


Seeing could be worse – would be worse. Perhaps Irmo's nightmarish form was indeed there, and not only in his mind, waiting for his vigilance to falter.   
Had it really been just a dream ? He sincerely doubted this. Yet, how could it _not_ be one ? He was intact. No wounds, no blood. Nothing but sore ribs and a thumping heart.   
He was just being ridiculous, and was asking himself too many questions.   
  


Namo reached to his bedside table, and found an orb, which at his touch started to glow faintly. Progressively, a cold blue light bathed the entire room, enlighting every corner, making it impossible for _any_ creature to hide. He got up, and proceeded to inspect everything. He was perhaps being too careful – or just frightened, but he knew he would not fall in proper sleep again if he did not make sure he was alone.   
  


He was feeling weak, his legs shaking from just walking around, his breath running out rapidly. He leant against a wall, closing his eyes as he sighed deeply. He needed to bring himself back to reason.   
It was a _nightmare_ , that was all. It was not so surprising, given how greatly Irmo's Hell had impacted him. His mind was simply reacting accordingly to his recent fears. Nothing out of the ordinary – though _this_ nightmare had seemed far too real.  
  


Surely Irmo wished to tell him something. Or perhaps had his creativity improved a lot, and this was the new sort of nightmares he had designed – as realistic as possible. Namo had to acknowledge it was impressive, and terrifying. Yet something told him it was no mere experiment.   
He needed to talk to him, the sooner the better. But he was exhausted, and his mind definitely was not clear. He needed some more rest.   
  


Suddenly, the sound of shattering glass resounded.   
His eyes shot open, and he saw the orb in pieces, a single little flame flickering amidst the shards, sending all shadows to dance on the walls. Namo's heart started throbbing, when his eyes stopped on the bed.   
There was something in it.

  
The blanket covered the shape, and it seemed to breathe, rising and falling slowly, with a soft hissing sound. Something was sleeping in his bed, something he had not seen coming here. Perhaps had it been here all along.   
His heart deafened him as he carefully walked to the bed, extending a shaking hand to the bundle created by the blanket. He touched it, gripped it. He took a deep breath, and pulled the blanket away with a swift motion, revealing...   
Nothing.   
  


The blanket fell flat on the floor, unveiling only a mark on the mattress – something had definitely been laying down here.   
Namo could not understand. As far as he knew, this mark could be his own. He had probably folded the blankets in a special shape as he had gotten up, and the flickering light of the orb had made him think it was moving... But what had broken the orb ? He tried to convince himself he was just tired. His mind was going far too wild, and he needed to sleep.   
  


But as he endeavoured to find a rational explanation for the orb, he felt a presence behind him. _Just_ behind. And a scent of decaying flowers came to him, followed by hissing breath.   
He rapidly turned his head in panic, and saw only shadows. He truly was losing his mind.   
But something brutally grabbed his arm, and pulled him down with force on the bed.   
  


And Irmo was here again, moth-like wings spread wide as he straddled his chest, and his long, skeletal hands strangling him.   
Namo could see his twisted face in the pale light – haunted eyes lit by insanity, mouth gaping wide in a delirious grin, and a hundred needles at the place of his teeth.   
Namo fought him back, instinct overtaking fear, and he tried to push him away. But he could not shove him, and Irmo was rapidly depriving him of all air.   
He reached on his side, where the shards of glass laid. Namo cut his fingertips as he groped for a piece, but he found one.   
With one desperate motion, he slashed his brother's throat open.   
  


Irmo immediately let go of him, and froze as he realized his defeat. Thick, dark blood ran down from his gaping wound, and spurted out from his mouth, painting Namo's face in crimson.   
Irmo looked down at him, staring deeply into his eyes until life departed them.

Irmo's wings fell down with him, in a cloud of dust on the bed. His face was buried in Namo's neck, soaking them both with warm blood.

  
Namo felt nothing. Regretted nothing. He gathered Irmo in his arms, holding him close, and kissed his forehead as to bid him goodnight.   
In the stench of bloodied flowers, he cradled his dead brother, a relieved smile upon his lips.   
  


     With a scream of terror Namo awoke, sitting up on the floor.   
He looked around, and saw the orb still full, his bed empty, and Irmo nowhere. He had fainted.   
Namo got up, hugging his trembling arms to himself, soaked in cold sweat and tears. His throat and heart were clenched, and his stomach was turning, twisting, filling him with disgust.   
He slowly realized the true horror of his nightmare. Killing his brother in cold blood – the only solution. Irmo was beyond any sort ot help.   
  


_No !_ He thought. No, this was not the solution. This would never be. Never would he harm his little brother. He would rather die at his place, than watch him suffer.   
  
Disgust and pain stabbed through his entire body, and he curled up on himself, sliding to the floor. He needed to talk to Irmo. He needed to take care of him, to show him he was there. To show him he _loved_ him. Such nightmares could not be ordinary.   
He got up, ignoring the wrenching pain in his muscles, heart and lungs.   
He had no time to lose.   
  


 


	9. Of The Leper Butterflies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No specific warnings this time... Just an insecure Irmo :)

     The dream lingered in Irmo's mind. He saw himself falling, the blood from his throat springing and soaking Namo underneath him. He felt everything leaving him – breath, warmth, life. Namo's arms around him were as briars, cradling him tightly and stinging his flesh, scraping his bones. The cold kiss Namo planted upon his forehead was of ice, just as a stab through his skull. It was white-hot, and frozen at once, searing his mind and piercing his brain, filling his head with the scent of burning flesh.

 

And all this horror he inflicted on himself, for he was the one to direct the play. He pulled each string of each limb. And he carried the nightmare to its peak as he pulled one last, to stretch Namo's lips in a satisfied smile.

He froze this scenery in his mind – the black satin bed pooling in blood, their limbs entangled, moth-wing dust upon them both. He felt tender pain, the glee of a peaceful death. It did not sadden him. If Namo were to reproduce it for real, he would use his last breath to thank him, and pass away with the deepest kiss.

 

His eyes opened slowly, and he stared at the ceiling of white marble for long minutes. He knew he could be mistaken for dead, given how perfectly still he was. He felt relaxed, his heart beating a slow pace – almost too idly.   
The Gardens' breath brushed at him, a scent of young flowers playing with his loose hair, as invisible fingers stroked his mane of silver. Yet he moved still not.   
He felt neither cold, nor warm. He almost felt nothing at all. His skin seemed firm ; as though changed to porcelain, and the sound of his hair brushing on it had the exact same sonority.   
  


     Irmo remembered a day, when one of his Maiar had passed away from a nightmare. Her feeble mind had been too weak for such intense work. The unfortunate creature had moaned, whimpered in frightful pain, fists and eyelids shut tightly. Irmo had heard her in his own sleep – her little heart drumming madly, her calls for help.   
  


He had come to her, cradling her in his arms until her torment took an end. There was nothing else he could do – she was already lost.   
He saw her changing from lively to lifeless, a poor child scythed too soon. As her last breath and beat were spent, a crack appeared on her forehead, splitting the porcelain in two. Upon it Irmo's tears had fallen, seeping into her empty skull.   
  


He had ran his fingers in her discoloured hair, dry as straw, and had caressed her cold cheeks, ivory-white and oddly soft. The sound of his fingers on her porcelain skin was forever to stay carved in his mind, just as the sound of a blade that brushes against hair – a chant for pain to come. However pain had already come and gone for his Maia, and he was left with her little corpse, one more statue for the Gardens.   
  


Este had mourned her with him, and Nienna had come too as they laid her on the ground, countless flowers immediately blooming below her, soon to swallow her whole.   
For long no nightmares were dreamt, and Irmo decided to work on them alone, refusing the potential loss of another child. For he saw them as such, and refused their suffering.   
  


Yet if _he_ were to pass away, would his Maiar mourn him ? Would anyone ? He pursed his lips, repressing this thought. _Yes_ , he whispered to himself. _Some_ _would_.   
Had Namo not proved it to him already ? Irmo had tormented him enough, he could not burden him with his futile insecurities anymore. His brother had shown worry for him, and he should be content with it. Yet it was out of pity only, and he could not convince himself otherwise.   
  


He sighed deeply, and felt the wind blowing colder. The sky was clouding progressively, and if his mood did not brighten, he could expect a downpour.   
But he remained this way, laying awake on his bed of marble, feeling neither cold nor warm. Only the faint beating of his heart could testify of life that still inhabited him.   
If only he had none. He often wished to wrench it out from his chest, place it in a safe and throw the key away. He needed it not. Not if it made him suffer so greatly.   
And without a heart, he would be far less focused on his own emotions. He could design dreams far brighter, without hiding calls for help in every one of them. Especially in those sent to Namo.  
  


His brother was no fool. It was only a matter of time before he came to the Gardens, and asked him explanations for this nightmare of a new kind.   
To this however, Irmo smiled.   
Clever, was it not ? Dreams so realistic one could mistake them for truth. Sensations, smells, tastes, sounds. Pure terror, and no means to know if it were real of not.   
Who, if not Namo, would have been better fitted to receive an experimental version of it ? He was always a willing testing subject. Yet Irmo knew he had pushed it too far, and should have stopped before this tragic end. This, had doubtlessly warned his brother of his distress.   
  


Irmo felt ridiculous again. He wished to ask Namo about his feelings, his _true_ opinion about him. Yet he was just a little dream, shadowed by Doom's imposing figure, and he could not speak with him on an equal foot.   
How could he even have such pretention ? Namo was just being kind to him. He pitied him, Irmo thought again, hammering this idea deep inside of his skull. Whatever pleasant words Namo would try to write above this carving would disappear quickly, for even gilded and embellished, reality was unchanged.   
  


Irmo closed his eyes for a little while.   
He was not sleepy. He simply wished he could stop time, and take a long pause from everything that surrounded him. He wanted to silence it all.   
His mind was a gigantic mirror of haunting reflections, and all minds were inside of it. He mastered them all, playing with them as a juggler with flames, shaping fire into butterflies or worms, blessing or cursing the dreamers.   
  


Would it not be easier, if he felt nothing at all ? If he could distance himself from his own emotions, could he not be more productive with dreams ? Instead of it he was leaving an imprint on each vision he sent, dissimulating distress into it. And Namo was the only one to understand it fully.   
He wanted to appear strong, unbreakable. Yet all he achieved was being dangerous, for himself and others.   
  


A single tear rolled down his face, and he started feeling everything anew. The Gardens alive, his Maiar all around... And a visitor.   
Namo had come. He still was far away – at the entrance of the Gardens, perhaps just past the great portal. He could feel him moving forth, his presence growing stronger with each step he was taking.

 

Irmo moved as by reflex. He did not want his brother to find him there, so frail and pale, a fragile thing almost statufied in sorrow. He wanted to keep a face in front of him, to seem just a bit stronger than he actually was.   
He knew Namo could read him as a book. As though his brother could open him and his mind, and read lines of tortured thoughts upon his bones and heart, his blood like ink pulsing in his veins as Namo's eyes deciphered him.   
  


He rose up, legs tingling as blood returned to them. He started walking, paying no attention to the dizziness of his head. There were sparkles everywhere, as a thousand lightning bugs surrounding him, hiding from his sight as he turned his head to catch a glimpse of them.   
But his legs would not carry him fast enough to his brother. He did not want to wait, refused to let him come here again. Last time Namo had stepped near his temple, ivy had entangled him, and he had drifted in abyssal horror.   
  


Irmo endeavoured to chase this memory away. It had been awful for them both, and he did not want to recall it. Even though he had to accept his mistakes...  
Acknowledging he had killed Namo in thought was painful. Yet it was all fair, now.   
He had given his brother the opportunity to take his revenge on him, and though he had left Namo no choice, he knew it was what his brother wanted. Even though Namo claimed not remembering Irmo's Hell, his mind must have kept traces of it. Irmo had offered him unconscious revenge, and he felt a bit better now.   
  


He closed his eyes, disembodying to join his brother. His skin started to dry and shrivel, and it cracked, hundreds of butterflies flying out of the slits. They swarmed in shades of silver and pearly white, their wings mirroring all colours, and none at once. As a cloud they flew away in Namo's direction, as swiftly as the wind.   
Irmo's mind suddenly seemed lighter. He was all and nothing at once, alone and a thousand. Unseen, unfelt. The thought of staying disembodied was far too appealing.   
  


Irmo secretly wished to spy on his brother, outside of his dreams. To simply be around him in his wake, to watch the cold, grim Vala of Doom. Would it not be more simple, if he were a mere ghost around his brother, thin air around him embracing him with void arms ? Would it be so bad, to forever be shapeless ? He thought it would not.   
  


Namo was there, just below. It was too late to turn back. He descended in a whirl of powdery wings, a silver swirl that started to take form again.  
The shape of his body drew itself in fluttering motions, countless wings tracing the frame of his delicate figure with precision. And the butterflies merged as one, filling the empty lines of Irmo's silhouette. His wings spread majestuously in their whole glory. They fluttered for a moment, and curled, wrapping tightly around his bare skin, clothing him in spectral colours.   
  


For this whole moment, he knew Namo's eyes were on him. And he took great delight in it, imagining more than he saw it the fascinated look of his brother, astonished by his metamorphosis. Irmo's raiment wove itself on him, as a spider's web falling on his delicate shoulders, and tying itself at his waist, floating on his lithe body.   
He opened his eyes at last, and met Namo's own. He smiled to him – a sincere smile that relieved his cheeks of the too numerous forced ones he had been giving before.   
  


''Good day, Irmo,'' his brother greeted him.

 

His smile widened. Namo did not seem to be angry – though he looked tired. The circles under his eyes were darker than usual. Probably due to the nightmare, he thought.   
Irmo was about to ask him the reason of his visit, but Namo took him by surprise. He stepped forward, and embraced him tightly.  
He obviously did not struggle, or try to push him away, but he took some time to realize. Namo was suddenly _very_ affectionate. Irmo wrapped his arms around him, holding him as close as he could.   
  


Their hug lasted longer than usual, and for once, it was Namo who refused to let go. Irmo could feel his breath in his neck, his heart beating against his own. Namo was tensed, he could tell without any difficulty. He gently rubbed his back, caressed his coal-black hair with affection. He could not help but giggle as Namo kissed his cheek.   
  


''Are you alright, Sweet Brother ?'' he asked, starting to worry for him. This behaviour was utterly uncanny.   
  


Namo nodded, and pulled back. He held Irmo's hand tightly in his own, rubbing his satin-like skin with his thumb.   
  


''There are things I must tell you,'' he sighed at last. ''Unpleasant things. But you must understand it is for your own good.''  
  


Irmo's heart missed a beat. His own good ?   
Was it not what all tormentors said to their victims ? Was it not the reason all invoked to justify Melkor's imprisonment, for instance ? Of course the case of the Dark One was different, yet it mattered little to Irmo. His brother's tone was ominous, as though he were about to chain him in his Halls as well.   
  


''What do you mean ?'' he asked dryly, wrenching his hand away from Namo's. His brother sighed, eyes cast down.  
  


''Could we perhaps go somewhere else ?'' Namo suggested, trying to ease Irmo's dubiousness.   
  


Irmo crossed his arms. He looked around, as though sweeping away all possibilities of other places. He finally stared at his brother, resigned.  
  


''Here is good,'' he declared coldly. The joy of seeing Namo had vanished at once. Above them, the skies were turning crimson.   
  


Namo was about to protest, but Irmo reacted before he spoke, and dropped down on the young grass, sitting cross-legged. He would not yield.   
  


''Here is good,'' he repeated, glancing up to him.   
  


Namo nodded, giving in with a half-repressed sigh.   
For a long, embarrassing moment they sat in silence, avoiding the other's gaze, and pretended to listen to the sounds all around. They were alone – at least out of sight and earshot.   
Irmo occasionally glared at his brother, waiting for him to talk.   
  


''Have you been working on dreams, recently ?'' Namo asked as innocently as he could.   
  


His smile was forced – Irmo could tell. He was trying to appear affable, and failed pathetically. But Irmo decided to play his game, and he smiled, narrowing his eyes.   
  


''Indeed,'' he said. ''Did you enjoy the one I sent to you ? I would love to hear your opinion, as detailed as possible.'' It was not in his habits to be mean, especially towards Namo. But his words had wounded him – his _own good_. As long as Namo did not give him a proper explanation, he refused to cooperate.   
  
''It was... realistic,'' Namo said with difficulty, as he repressed a shiver. ''How did you do it ?''  
  


A light flashed across Irmo's eyes. Though he was slightly upset, questions about his work always brightened his mood. His smile became sincere, as he started explaining in details his process to send such dreams.   
He told Namo of a synchronization with the sleeper's mind – a part of himself travelled there, and merged with the subject, as always. Yet instead of simply giving abstract visions, he focused on realism – sensations, scents, and all that could make the situation as real as possible – and as terrifying as it could be.   
He told Namo it was not so different from _their_ dreams, where they indulged in the pleasures of the flesh... He expected him to chuckle, or a least smile a bit. But Namo just stared at him, unmoved.   
  


''It is not perfect yet,'' he admitted. ''I need to work on it a bit more, but it will soon be complete. Would be accept to try it again if–''

 

''No,'' Namo cut him off, slightly frowning. ''Never again, Irmo.''   
  


Silence fell again, and their eyes locked. Irmo clenched his jaw.   
Why was his brother so defensive ? Why did he not admit he had enjoyed this dream, and savoured every moment of this sweet revenge – that could stand for everything Irmo had ever put him under ? It should have pleased him. Ending the life of his troublesome brat of a brother should have relieved him. Maybe he should even have regretted waking up.   
  


''I thought you would enjoy it,'' Irmo pouted. '' Was it not satisfying ?''  
  


Namo seemed to freeze. He stared at Irmo, and with each passing second, his expression evolved from shock to anger.   
He reached forward and grabbed Irmo's wrist, holding it painfully tight.   
  


'' _Never_ do it again,'' he growled low. ''How could it have been any kind of pleasant ? I _killed_ you, Irmo !''   
  


''And ?'' he asked innocently, tilting his head to a side. ''Am I not just a burden to you, Sweet Brother ?''   
  


Namo released hs wrist at such words. As he held Irmo's resigned eyes, he could almost hear his heart breaking.   
  


''Irmo,'' he breathed out, his tone suddenly soft. ''Why would you be a burden to me ?''  
  


Irmo shrugged, letting out a frustrated sigh. Of course, Namo would deny it. He could not admit it, could he ? It was unpolite to say such things to someone's face, and Namo valued manners above many things. Plus, Namo had never been talented at confessions.

 

''I need not explaining why,'' Irmo said. ''It is evident. I am a weight on your shoulders and on your heart, and I am responsible for our blasephemy, am I not ? You should want to get rid of me.''   
  


Namo shook his head slowly, reaching out to lay his hand on Irmo's shoulder. But he slapped his hand away, clicking his tongue.   
  


''I have no need for your pity,'' he hissed. ''Do you not think I deserve your honesty ? I do not need to be coddled.''  
  


''Listen to me,'' Namo started.   
  


''Say it !'' he cut him off, as he got up. '' Say I am weak, useless, dangerous. Say it, Namo !''  
  


''Sit down and listen to me,'' Namo repeated, though his tone was losing its calmness.   
  


''Why should I ?'' Irmo yelled. ''Why should I drink on your lies, as I have always done ?''  
  


Namo got up, and grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him brutally.   
  


''You are _sick_ , Irmo !'' he shouted, losing his temper. Indeed, he was done with coddling. ''You need to control yourself, and you are incapable of doing it alone !''  
  


Irmo's eyes filled with tears at the shout of his brother. The words were slowly starting to make their way into his mind. He stared at Namo in silent shock, until his vision became blurred, and his eyes burnt with unshed tears. He covered his mouth with both hands, muffling his sobbing.   
As Namo saw the impact of his words, he moved to gently hug him again. But Irmo pushed him away violently, with such force Namo fell on the grass. They both expected to hear a shattering sound again.   
  


''Wait,'' Namo halted him as he tried to get up, but it was too late.   
  


Irmo stared at him in betrayal, bitter tears rolling down his pale cheeks, hands buried in his silver hair. He took a few steps back as Namo got up anew, as though startled by him. He disembodied again, his flesh crumbling as by sudden leper, and exploded in a thousand razor-winged butterflies.   
Namo reached out for him in the swarming insects, but they cut his flesh open as they flew around, and he winced in pain as he took away his hand.   
He watched the butterflies dispersing in all directions, and felt his heart sinking deep into his chest. He had failed his brother – again. And this time, saving him would not be easy.   
  


 

     Deep within the Gardens, in a place shadowed by thick trees, Irmo took shape again. He fell down the ground of dead leaves, and curled up on himself, his heart aching painfully. His hands were clenched in his hair, and his wings had come down on him, covering his misery in dark veils.   
He could not go back, now. Namo had finally admitted he was mad, and that he needed help. But what sort of help ? By nature, he knew he could never be as Namo.   
He rolled on his back, facing the dark skies. As his own tears poured from his eyes, rain started as well, concealing his sorrow in cold drops.   
  


Here, laying on the mossy rug of his kingdom, he felt safe. At home. In this realm of madness and nonsense, he was King. This was no place for reason. No place for sanity. And no place for his doomed love, that should never have been born.

 

  
  


 

 


	10. Intra Venus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is shorter than usual... The next one will be longer ! :)

     Where Irmo laid motionless, a thousand pallid petals had started to fall. Their slow, descendant dance to the dead-leaved ground was hypnotic, and Irmo watched them as they floated down. Gradually, petals coldened to flakes of ice, translucent whiteness progressively coating all in a shroud of frozen life.   
And still Irmo's eyes were open, watching the Void of waltzing snow petals, their calm whirling channelling all rage within his heart. Irmo's mind was a storm of violent tears, demential shouts, all tempesting upon the walls Namo's voice had built.

 

One wall was _weak_ , and upon it cascaded a waterfall of tears, blue in sorrowful pain, cold as a forlorn winternight.   
Another wall was _useless_ , and it was red with embers of fury. It hissed, it shrieked, it twisted and wrung Irmo's heart.   
The last wall bore no name. It was made of Namo's essence, pure pulsing darkness and dancing shadows. Irmo knew the name – the word – this _cursed_ one ! Yet ''love'' he would never call it again, for it brought along a pain so great, he wanted nothing of it.   
  
And he was trapped within, a pitiful God in a pyramidic prison, wailing in torment.   
Yet above – just above, were the whirling petals. In their blinding dance Irmo found peace, comfort. Quietness. Not a word from Sweet Brother. Not a thought from Little Dream. No hissing hate from Nightmare. In the searing white sea of a flawless sky, Irmo drowned his gaze, and found merciful silence.   
  


_This kingdom is mine_ , he was telling himself. _I am the master of this realm._ And a smile, the faintest of smiles was blooming on his lips, as though painted by ironic hands wielding mocking brushes, drawing serenity upon the face of torment.   
  


Irmo could not sleep. Could not dream, could not create. He could only stare up and smile, enclosed in towering triangle walls. His mind was trapped and free at once, and he could hardly feel at all.   
No one would seek him out. Namo was done with him, now.   
Estë... Estë knew when he was unwell, and respected his need for calmness. She was gentle – faithful to her name, and it seemed to Irmo he did not thank her enough for it.   
He sighed, abandonning all hope to be found. It was not so important anymore.

 

He let himself be covered in snow-like petals, a thin layer of frost draping his body, entombing him in his own silent stillness.   
Soon, not even the flutter of his long lashes could chase the petals away – for he moved them no more. His translucent eyes lost themselves in immaculate voids, and to glass they turned, frozen in eternity.   
  


Irmo could feel himself drifting. It yet was different from falling asleep – far different. If he listened closely, he could almost hear it – the deafening, ghastly silence that spoke to him in buzzing and distant rumbling. Could he even hear any longer ?   
He grew soundless. Sightless.   
  


And he moved still not, expecting to feel more than to hear the loud, final _crack_ from his skull of porcelain. This sound that would mark the end of his shell. He would die, maybe never to return to the flesh.   
  


The idea of being disembodied, without certitude to come back used to frighten him. Now... It would not be so bad. To be shapeless for some time, to be free from this tomb-like existence. It was an appealing outcome for his sad, lonesome tale.   
Irmo could perceive it – the beckoning call of a frozen entity, a skeletal butterfly of his own seeming, welcoming him for some well-earned rest.   
  


This torment was too great to endure. From the moment things had started to be unsure with Namo, Irmo had felt the decline of his strength and mind – until going back was no longer possible. This strange, overwhelming sadness was too grave, too important now, and there was nothing to be done about it. It was love that killed him, and Irmo could see it only now. It all came from love.   
  


Darkness devoured him, as slowly as a sun-swallowing eclipse.   
  


 

     Now he was floating, just as the petals. Free. He felt weightless.   
When was the last time he felt this way ? He could not recall. Perhaps was it before he even _was,_ when in the Void he waited to exist, and nothing burdened his absent heart. Such tranquility was euphorical. No pain, no fury, no hatred. Only peace.

  
He was one with the breath of the Gardens, one with the waters of the Lake. He was nothing and all at once, a universal entity that knew no boudaries.   
He felt everything without limits. Though he could not smile – for smiling belonged to the trap of _being_ , he was radiating with joy. He was shining, glowing, _living !_ How ironical ; to live outside of life.   
  


In his bliss he ascended – up, always up. He left his cold body behind, and as he looked down on it, he saw a scenery of desolation. He laid in frozen petals, his wings broken and grey. But he felt no sorrow. Why would he ? He was not saddened by his fate. Whether or not someone was to find him, he would not care.   
  


Maybe he would come back to his cold shell. Maybe not. There was no need to hurry – he was free. Here and now, nothing truly mattered. The pyramid had collasped, and underneath its ruin Namo's words were buried.   
Free. Boundless. All he felt was bliss, and love for all things – even for his brother.   
  


_Sweet Brother_ , he said in the wind. The murmur made all leaves of the Gardens rustle, and all little creatures lifted their head to listen closely. The Lake rippled, writing ang writhing in abstract shapes with the Master's deep thought.   
  


It was this love that brought him to ruin. This love, that tore his soul to pieces. Looking back, Namo was not innocent. They both has their part in this tragedy.   
But he would not let it end this way. Irmo did not want to disappear forever – this was not his intention. He simply wanted a little pause, a moment to rest from this twisted, heart-wrenching reality that had become his own.   
  


All he wanted was to find strength again. To keep this tranquility, this feeling of peaceful might that he used to possess... Before self-doubt and hate settled. The flesh was so restrictive.   
Yet if he were to come back now... It would feel too quick. Unfinished. He wanted to be reborn, yet he needed time for his metamorphosis. When his wings would spread anew, all would be different. He knew it. He felt it.   
But one thing at the time.

  
  


     Though in this state Irmo could brew no dreams, he still could see minds. And how clearly, how detailed ! He could see everything, as a spectator of everyone's inner world, beholding the purest thoughts and the uttermost twisted ones alike. He was unseen, as a shadow that can never be spotted, a presence so light one could easily mistake it for a draught.   
And this draught would blow for some time, tickling thoughts and minds with kind amusement.   
  


Irmo's attention firstly turned to Namo's mind. Of course.   
He could see darkness, feel them, almost touch them. They were as curtains of the saddest weeping willow, veils of thick black sorrow concealing the heart of a doomed lover.   
And when usually Irmo would have simply gazed at this drapery, he now dared to part it. The draught blew through the hanging shadows, and slipped inside, beyond the barriers of Namo's mind.   
  
He entered a dark parlour. It was lit only by faint rays of moonlight through light curtains, and gentle wind made them dance, as mournful ghosts slowly spinning their sorrowful shrouds. If he listened closely, Irmo could almost hear them : their lonely, hollow voices.  
In the center of the room was a narrow, hexagonal bed of black satin, and at each corner was an elegant candelabrum. Wax had spilled on the wrung iron, as countless tears petrified – grief that would never end.   
  


Moonlight was caressing Namo's face. He laid on the funeral bed, hands joined and eyes closed. No breath. His coal-black hair had been brushed with great care, and braided in it were tiny white flowers, their petals scattered upon the bed.   
  


Irmo stared at him – at his brother's frozen features, his pallid skin and dark eye sockets, his lips of a strangled colour. Suffocated in melancholia, smothered by moping shadows.   
Such was the existence of Namo, and its bleak truth was laid bare before Irmo's eyes. He was an empty shell that awaited burial, a model painters had no cease to draw – only to keep it alive. Death and Doom were Namo's burdens, and neither joy nor happiness had ever been planned for him.   
  
How cruel was the Father. A fate so miserable for the eldest of the Feanturi, an existence so wretched. Namo's lot was no better than Irmo's own. But they were one divided as two, and they pulled and called to the other in despair for reunion, for the end of pain.   
Their loved blessed and plagued them at once. Perhaps the Father had created them only to mock their pathetic, filthy dance of lust and sorrow.   
  


Irmo caressed his brother's cheek with a gentle breath. If only he could take this pain away. If only he could heal Namo's grieved heart. He wished to wrap him in comforting spectral arms, and cradle his tormented soul.   
  


He gazed down at him for a long moment, before kneeling, as though he still were made of flesh. He crossed his arms on the mattress, and laid down his head, still watching his Sweet Brother's breathless sleep. He reached out, tenderly running deft fingers through ink-black strands of thin hair. He felt no desire to leave Namo's mind.  
In the distance, Irmo could hear voices. Shouts. Sobs. He could not tell. But he knew them well. He looked up at Namo, and beheld tears upon his face, running down without an end.   
  


They had found him.  
  


 

 


	11. Feel The Misery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not saying anything for this one... Things happen.

     Never had silence felt so heavy. Or perhaps was it due to the sudden, unbearable emptiness ; the brutal absence of what had always been there – but was never paid enough attention. A comforting sound, a faint melody that suddenly stops, only to be replaced by dull silence.   
  


The music had ceased in Namo's ears. And as he stared at his brother, he felt only coldness.   
He had brought Irmo to his own quarters, had laid him down in his own bed. He had lit all the candles he could, had covered him with thick, warm blankets.   
Why was he so cold ?   
  
Namo was sat near him, holding his hand tightly in his own. So cold. There was no breath in Irmo anymore. Nothing. He was as a doll, with large glass eyes gazing into the void.   
Namo could not close them. He could not bring himself to do it. Because it would mean denying the truth, would it not ?  
Irmo was not asleep. He was gone.   
  
_Dead,_ he thought. _No !_   
The Valar could not die. They could only disembody. They could leave their flesh and come back, whenever they wished to.   
Was disembodiment so different from wandering the realm of Dreams ? Irmo should be in utter control of it. When he slept, he let his mind travel over the voids, and far away.

So, why was he not coming back ?   
  


Namo's vision blurred. He blinked, chasing away the tears, sending them to roll down his tired, weary face. They followed the trail previous ones had traced, burning their way on his pale cheeks, marking with sorrow his image of unbreakableness, of complete control.   
What _image_ was there to keep anymore ? Appearances, control, mastering of himself – all those things that had led Irmo to ruin. A suffering so great he had not endured it.   
  
Why had he waited so long, to go after him ? Why had he not ran after him immediately, and caught him in a tight embrace, telling him all was fine ?   
Why, why had he thought Irmo would be alright ? Of course he was not ! He could have – should have given chase. There was no justification for going away, for leaving Irmo on his own.   
Now he had passed away by his fault – for the second time.   
  
He held his hand tighter, bending his head down as misery became too intense to bear.   
The image of his dear brother laying on a frozen ground, entirely covered in petals, would haunt him for eternity.   
Namo had thought nothing could be more dreadful that the Nightmare, feeding on his fear and anguish... How wrong had he been.   
For though calm, this scenery was by far more horrifying than any illusion Nightmare could weave. The death of Dreams was the essence of his haunting.   
  
_No !_ He repeated to himself, hammering it in his mind.   
Irmo was _not_ dead. He would come back, after some time. He would, no matter how long he was gone.   
Yet if time was what he needed, why had he not simply fallen asleep ?   
  
When Namo found him, he thought he had merely drifted off. Yet deep within himself, he knew there was far more to it.   
He had felt it, as a hand that suddenly clenches around his heart, fingers digging into each beat of protest, alarm ringing in every of his bones.   
As realization had struck him, and slowly settled in, he had fallen to his knees. All around was quiet – or perhaps his mind was silencing it all. He could only _see_ , see the horror before him – his dear little dream frozen, veiled in petals.   
Gently he had swept them away, with trembling hands and raging heart, erratically whispering _no,_ a deafening spectral chorus. And as he had touched his face, his fingertips had frozen.   
Why was he so cold ?  
  
Winter had come to the Gardens. Not a bright, crystalline Winter where snow slowly falls, and whiteness drapes all in peaceful beauty.   
_This_ winter was merciless, howling in murderous eagerness to swallow all life. And its hunger had devoured first the Master.   
  
Now Irmo laid still, carefully covered in thick blankets, in an attempt to bring warmth to his frozen shell.   
In all the Valar's hearts was now a breath of ice, the bleakness of Winter settling in their dreams – where all was grim and cold.   
And in Namo's own heart the tempest was merciless, enclosing him in whirlwinds of chiming laughter and gentle smiles, soft silver silk caressing his guilt, only to make it worse.   
  


His dear little brother was still here. Yet he was vanishing – as the last fleeting memories of a distant dream, seared by the first rays of a mourning sun.   
He danced with the transient silhouette of Irmo, waltzing with him upon a frozen lake, about to break at any moment. They both were fated to sink.   
  
But he refused to give in – Irmo _would_ come back ! Even if he had to dive underneath the ice and bring him up to the surface, risking to drown himself in the process.   
Winter would let Spring bloom at the Gardens. Life would come back anew with the Master's awakening. He wanted to hope.   
  
How ironical, for Doom to hope. Yet abandoning Irmo would mean his own end. It would destroy the last pieces of his heart, and he too would cease to exist, leaving only howling shadows in the Halls.   
For if the pulse of his own life found no echo in Irmo's, what was the point of this survival ?   
  


Namo reached out, gently caressing his brother's cheek. He simply needed to rest. He would soon wake up, and in bewilderment, would wonder why he was not in the Gardens.   
To this, Namo smiled.   
  


He would soon wake up. His eyes of glass would glisten with vivid life anew, and his paleness would take colour again. Life, mere _life_ would chase away this heart-wrenching appearance.   
Namo pulled the blankets up, tucking them as best as he could to bring Irmo warmth.   
Why was he so cold ?   
  
Irmo _hated_ the cold. He could not bear it, and shivered easily.   
Namo usually gave him his cloak, when he was cold. He used it to cover them both, and brought Irmo close to him, wrapping an arm around his delicate shoulders.   
  


He could see Irmo's smile, and so clearly ! His radiant joy, and slightly blushing cheeks as he curled up against him, seeking more warmth in Namo's tight embrace.   
Why was he not doing it now ? He clearly _was_ cold, so why no shivers ? Why no chatter of teeth, why no attempt to warm himself up ?   
  
''Why are you so _cold_ ,'' Namo whimpered miserably, eyes drowning in tears.   
His throat clenched, and he could no longer utter a word. Only pitiful whimpers.   
Namo knelt down near the bed, still holding his brother's hand. He cradled it as he muffled his broken voice in the sheets, shaking weakly as he wept.   
  
_Namo the Heartless._  
Namo the Ice-Hearted.   
Namo the Unfeeling.   
  
He cared neither for control, nor for his image anymore. Irmo's coldness was spreading to him in a frozen caress, a bone-travelling draught blowing in empty walls.   
And the silence – the silence so loud.

 

 

     Irmo had escaped Namo's mind.   
All had started to grow dark, and even darker as his Sweet Brother shed tears, as though his intrusion had been noticed, and Namo's mind wished to suffocate him. So he had left, reluctantly letting go of his brother's hand.   
He had given one final look behind, catching one last glimpse of this beautiful corspe, this crying sculpture of sorrow. And with a sigh he fled, slipping beyond the dark veils of Namo's mind.   
  
When he saw light again, he was near his own body.   
Yet he was not in the Gardens – which surprised him. Why had Namo brought him here, in his own quarters ? What difference would this make ?   
  
Irmo watched his brother for a long, lingering moment. He merely stared at him, at his miserable self bent down to his knees, his face buried into the bed. He was weeping.   
_Namo_ was weeping. And amidst the sobs he was not even trying to conceal, Irmo could hear words.   
  
His name. Apologies. Namo was begging him for forgiveness, pleading him to come back. He was holding his hand tightly, so tightly in his own.   
Irmo found it amusing, how perfectly similar this situation was to the one in Namo's mind – but inverted.   
He felt no pity.   
  
He was pleased.   
If he still had proper lips, he would smile, smile so widely his face would twist into a grimace. And he would laugh – laugh so loud ! What else could he do ? Namo was finally showing something for him. He cared not if it was sorrow. He had broken through Namo's shield of cold-heartedness, and he felt _proud_.   
  


It was cruel, to stay here and watch. So delectably cruel.   
He was satisfied with it. His Sweet Brother he had pitied moments ago, when he had seen the core of his being, now seemed utterly ridiculous to him. Things would change, once he was back in his shell.   
  
He kept on watching. Power, confidence filled him with each passing second, as Namo's tears were shed.   
Irmo reached out, passing a hand through his brother's hair. Namo's head shot up and he looked around in alarm, eyes open wide as they roamed the entire room, searching for the source of this touch.   
  


Irmo kept himself from chuckling. He moved down, his face now inches from Namo's own. He stared deep into the white void of his eyes.   
How entertaining was that. For so long Namo had ignored him. Now his Sweet Brother begged for him to come back – yet he _was_ back, here, just in front of him ! It was not so different than before. Even when Irmo stood so close to him, Namo would sometimes ignore him. Yet now, Irmo was in control. And for the first time in his long, quiet existence, he felt it.  
  


Superiority.   
  


 


	12. Beyond The Wall Of Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irmo is a bit too curious.

     The chains clinked, as Melkor shifted in his sleep. There was a low, buzzing sound all around, enclosing him in the heaviest silence. He was not even sure he had been asleep. Wake resembled slumber, and in complete darkness he could spot no difference. And recently, dreams had utterly vanished.   
  


It was the second time something of the like happened. Not so long ago, his mind had been filled with nightmares, yet they seemed... different than usual. Was he starting to lose his sanity ? Surely being isolated and plunged in total darkness did him no good. The shadows of Mandos had no similarity with his own.

  
This absence of dreams _did_ frighten him. What game was Irmo playing ? The Master of Dreams had seemed particularily keen on sending him twisted visions, recently.... Until they abruptly stopped.   
  


His sleep was filled with images of destruction, ever since he had been brought to the Halls. He saw Utumno in ruins, and his armies scattered in pieces. He still could feel the pain and contusions from his fight with Tulkas, even after so long. How exactly long had it been ?   
He knew not. It did not really matter. Counting the days to the end of his captivity would only be depressing.

  
Yet counting was the only distraction he could find, now. Dreams – even dreadful, used to be a means for him to escape – at least in mind. Now... He was trapped in this cold, narrow cell that reeked of his own blood. There were some things that could not be erased.   
And sleep was no longer different from deep thought ; where he saw himself alone. No more visions. Nothing.   
  
It was infuriating to be here, unable to even be informed of what was going on. There had to be something ; this sudden change in dreams was not usual. Something must be going on with Irmo, of this he had no doubt.   
Not that he cared much about him. He was mostly indifferent to him, and knew him mainly from Nienna.   
  


She often told him about her two brothers, and it had not taken long for Melkor to understand how complicated their situation was. Nienna visibly felt lighter, whenever she ended her long, frustrating rant about them.   
Melkor did enjoy such moments. They made him feel not as a prisoner, but as a confident for Nienna. A friend, almost.   
  


He sighed. It had been long, since she last visited him. The latest time had been... rather painful for his honour. She found him bloodied and weak, in tears of shame. He tried to wave it away. It was not the moment to think about it.  
  
But in the utter silence of his cell, he started to hear something that did not come from his mind. A sound of wind.   
Wind ? Here, in the Halls ? It would be unlikely. There was no aperture, not a single crack in the walls or ceiling of his cell. And though he was blindfolded when brought to his prison, he could clearly remember descending stairs. He certainly was at the deepest of Mandos, and no natural wind could blow there.   
  
Was it his brother, paying him a visit in the form of shapeless wind ? Once again, it would be odd. Manwë would resist his desire of seeing him.   
He had a strong will, though in his way of governing he was soft. Manwë only complied to the will of the Father, and endeavoured to find compromises that would please all the Valar. His role was not the easiest – yet he was responsible for his own situation.   
All would be far easier for him, if he were to choose freedom over enslavement. Melkor pitied him, sometimes. He truly did.   
  
He sighed, as another breath of wind blew at his ear. He had no idea where it could come from, neither who controlled it. He swore between clenched teeth, this little game already tiring him.   
He could show patience for three ages of chaining. Yet this playful breeze would not be long to infuriate him.   
  


Melkor turned his head as best as he could, trying to catch a glimpse of his visitor. And in the corner of his eye, he saw something.  
A shape, ethereal yet distinct, giving off soft light.   
He frowned, unsure. What if his mind was definitely in an awful state ? Perhaps he started to truly be crazy. First sounds, now ghosts... what would be next ? He tried to focus, closing his eyes for a moment.   
  


_It is nothing,_ he thought. _It will soon be gone_.   
But when he opened his eyelids again, the shape not only was more distinct, but closer. Melkor's heart missed a beat as he saw a hand rising to his forehead.   
Cold.   
  
''Leave me !'' He barked, trying to shove the thing off.   
  
And the thing moved, then froze, as though staring at him. Did it only have eyes ? Melkor could hardly tell. It seemed to have no eyes at all ; only two deep caves into its face.   
And the caves dug holes into his soul, pierced him to the core. It was a sensation he knew – nightmares did him the exact same, some time ago. He frowned. Could it be ?...  
  
''Irmo ?'' He muttered.   
  
As an answer, the shape shone brighter. Gradually Melkor felt cold seizing him, and chills travelled his entire body, through all of his bones and stretched muscles. He shivered, feeling his skin turning to ice.   
  


The ghost's face was now inches from his own, and its hollow eyes stabbed mercilessly into his brain. Yet despite this gaunt aspect, Melkor could definitely identify Irmo. What had happened to the Master of Dreams ?   
  


He felt a sudden jolt of pain through his skull, and his vision blurred. Irmo was invading his mind, breaching into it at once.   
It burnt him. And he knew Irmo took delight into it, judging by his ravenous smile that had no cease of growing.   
  


He tried to fight back, to push him away, yet the chains held him perfectly still. He could only endure, once again. Melkor's heart went mad from panic.   
He let out a scream of both pain and terror, as Irmo's power overwhelmed him.   
  
  


     Irmo felt Melkor showing resistance.   
He still ignored how he could not only sense, but also _see_ him, as clearly as though he were standing in front of him, clad in restrictive flesh.   
Melkor should be as easy to enter as Namo had been, and feel nothing at all... Why was it so different with Melkor ? Why was _everything_ different, when it came to the Dark One ?

  
It probably was due to the fact Melkor was stronger than all the Valar.   
He was superior to them by far ; his power boundless, and even restrained by hallowed chains he possessed undeniable might.   
  


Perhaps in his usual form, Irmo could not have entered his mind. Yet he was a lesser being no longer. He could see all and everything, and even the strongest barriers were fragile under his touch.   
Even if Melkor were to talk about it, it would hardly sound odd at all. Yes, Irmo had entered his mind. He did it all the time when he sent dreams, did he not ? This complain would have no impact at all. Plus, to whom would Melkor complain ?   
No one was on his side.

  
  
     Though Irmo felt far more powerful and confident, Melkor's mind still unsettled him.   
It was dark, yet unlike Namo's mind, those shadows threatened him. He was as a lost prey, only waiting for predators to circle and devour him. There were hundreds of lurking creatures, and Irmo was alone.   
Yet he did not feel so vulnerable anymore. Was any of those creatures to come, he would destroy it with a mere snap of his fingers.   
He easily passed through the growling shadows, and progressed to the center of Melkor's mind. His curiosity perhaps carried him a bit too much.   
  


The core of the Dark One's mind was... unlike anything Irmo expected. He could not even see it.   
For all around it was whirling a tempest of fire, wrapping itself around Melkor's defenseless mind. It could not be crossed. The howling flames were protecting Melkor – against _everything_. Someone cared so deeply for him they had merged with Melkor, to shield him from harm.

  
This wrathful ring attracted Irmo as a moth to a flame. In fascination he reached out, keeping himself at reasonable distance. Yet the fire seemed to understand his intention, and his fingers were charred at once.   
  


_I see you._

  
Irmo took back his hand, and stared at it in awe. This protector was agressive – perhaps even more than Melkor himself. Maybe it was time to leave ; staying would be foolish.   
For the fire was growing, and Irmo beheld its sudden expansion, frozen in admiration. He closed his eyes as the flames devoured him. He was after all no more than an uninvited guest.   
  


  
     The deflagration pushed him off Melkor's mind and he fell backwards, collapsing on the cold floor of the cell. He hit the hard stone. He felt exposed, and suddenly weak, drained by this confrontation.   
He felt dizzy, heavy. He looked up to where Melkor hung, and saw the gleam of the Dark One's furious eyes, the fire of his mind still raging. Slowly this light died out, and Irmo felt himself drifting, sinking. Melkor was talking to him.

  
_Go away._

  
And he wished to. Irmo wished for nothing else. He felt frightened, weak. The abyss was swallowing him, he was drowned and pushed to the surface at the same time, pulled down and dragged out of the dark waters of his mind.

  
_Go... back_.

  
Back ? Back where ? It was Melkor's voice no longer. Not entirely. It had merged with another, a soft tone that reminded him of merrier times. The tender caress of feather-like shadows, the coldness of long, gentle hands stroking his hair.   
  


_Come back.  
  
_ And suddenly he could see again.   
He could feel a weight on his chest – and warmth, warmth envelopping him. Above, was a black ceiling engraved with abstract shapes. Irmo needed not looking around to know where he was – _how_ he was. He was back to the flesh, and in Namo's bed.   
  
''Come back,'' whispered a voice near him.   
  


He slightly turned his head to a side, just enough to see Namo, head resting in his arms crossed on the bed. He was asleep.   
Tears had dried on his cheeks, and his quivering lips muttered indistinct words. _Come back_ , he repeated between strangled syllables.   
  


Irmo did not move. He just watched his Sweet Brother, his vision blurring. Tears rolled on his own cheeks, as his heart clenched tightly.   
How cruel had he been.

 


	14. Mouth Of Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irmo is finally awake.

     Irmo laid for a long time in the bed. He slowly was getting used to his surroundings and to his flesh again, to the warmth that was being pumped through each vein, to the feeling of his sore muscles. It was just as waking up – except he rather felt as though going back to sleep, to an uninteresting, dull slumber where all things were bland.  
  
All was veiled by a thin, almost unseen layer of grey. But in his death-like sleep he had seen everything bare, colours of genuine vividness, and he had felt all things at their fullest. He had heard the unconcealed sound of the roaring sea, the deep rumble of subterranean fires, and the growl of beasts as though in their very throat he was nestled.   
  
But progressively, with each sigh longer than the previous, all started to cover itself in cold ashes. Light grey was coating his eyes, as a spider that weaves her web upon her prey, dooming it to see no more. He was entagled in the net of life again.   
  


But such wonders he had seen, such beauty he had beheld ! How could he even consider to accept this existence again ? He had been set free from the flesh, and felt alive as he never had before.   
Now he had to accept this fate, and comply to reality.   
  


Irmo breathed and blinked, and his heart beat slow. All things looked dull, so dull ! And he felt as heavy as lead, as hard as stone, as exposed as a cloudless sky. Such things he never felt before, when of the delights of non-existence he knew too little.   
He used to fear and redoubt the groping fingers of death – and now he wished them to be back around him, to enclose him in their ensuring grasp.   
  


Fortunately, there were not only downsides to being back to his fragile, restrictive shell. In the Beyond he had gathered such power, such knowledge... He had departed weak, and was back strengthened – _changed._   
Yet of this he would tell none, especially not his dear brother, whose head rested in crossed arms upon the bed and whose lips, chapped by exhaustion and deprivation, murmured unintelligible words.   
  


Irmo remembered waking up briefly before, and weeping for his brother's pain, and lamenting on his own cruelty. However now he slightly smiled, and shook his head in amusement of himself.   
His old self was not entirely forgotten, but he would no more shed tears for his brother. The only ones he would let roll would be of laughter, of mockery in front of Namo's pitifulness. No longer would he grieve for their doomed love, for this miserable situation he wished no more.   
It was _love_ that had broken him down, that had killed him and brought about this deadly transcendence. He wished to feel it never again.   
  


Irmo put out a hand from the heavy pile of blankets, and pushing himself up in a sitting position, it came to him that indeed his body had not moved for some time. Each bone, each muscle, each inch of his skin was tingling with the ghostly sting of thousand needles, and Irmo decided to remain still for a moment.  
  
Though his mind was perfectly awake and alert, his body was only starting to respond, and it hardly followed at all. Within his head all was fusing, flashing, and he could not bear to have to wait so idly.   
He wished to spread his wings and fly ; fly out of the Halls and over the Hallowed Lands, over Middle-Earth. He wished to behold all things with new eyes – these eyes that had witnessed the Beyond, and that had come back. Surely nothing would be as it once was.   
  


_Nothing at all_ , he thought as he looked down at Namo.   
  
Irmo let out a long sigh, watching his brother. He detailed him and his tensed features, tired even in sleep. He had no dreams, though they would not be long to come back.   
Everyone would feel Irmo being back at last, as dreams would bloom in their sleep anew.   
  


He could not bear to have to wait this way ; there were so many dreams he wanted to brew, such various visions and images ! In his journey within minds he had seen far beyond his usual boundaries, and could now weave dreams far more detailed for all. He was more powerful. _Far_ more powerful.   
  


What did the Father think of this ? Did he approve of his resurrection, of his odd journey ? He probably did – or cared too little. Would he let him live, if he were angered by Irmo's experience ? The Father could create and destroy at will. With a snap of his fingers, he could dissolve Irmo into non-existence – this time for good.   
  


Irmo shivered at the idea. It did not frighten him, it _thrilled_ him ! For he had survived, had he not ? He had seen and travelled farther than he should even have, and he was back. The Father had allowed him to remain. Did it not make him special ? Did it not make him _chosen_?   
  


He bit back a grin. _Chosen_. All Valar were. Yet by being the Master of Dreams and thoughts, he already was meant to possess more power and knowledge than his fellows. Why had he always felt weak, before his otherworldly journey ? Perhaps was it meant to happen. Perhaps was it his destiny, to depart and come back in full bloom.   
  


He still held something from it ; a splinter from his ethereal voyage, of essence raw and pure, lodged within his heart. This splinter would grow, and bathe his entire self in its power, granting him what he was meant to detain from the start – divinity.   
But one thing at the time.  
  


He looked down at Namo again, dragged out of his reverie by a faint, almost inaudible moan from his brother. Something had stirred his sleep. Perhaps did he feel Irmo was awake.   
Irmo watched him. It all felt so odd. He was there, and Namo too, and they both could see and feel each other. He felt his throat clenching tightly.

 

Though he knew he was no longer inferior to Namo, he still felt something for him. It was neither admiration, nor envy – no more. Was it love ? He could not tell. By wishing to be as him he had worshipped his brother, and in his adoration ''love'' had been perverted into something darker, something deeply harmful.   
He would have given everything for a glance, a word, a caress, even carelessly given. He had abased himself enough.   
  


''Love'' now seemed meaningless – had he ever even loved ? Or had it been mere jealousy, and wounded pride not to resemble him ? He felt unable to utterly despise him. He still was his brother after all, his _elder_ brother atop of it. He owed him respect.   
  
_No,_ he thought. _No more._  
  


He did not deserve to torment himself any longer. He had been on his knees for far too long, in submission to Namo's superiority. As he stared at him, at his agitated sleep and his weakness from exhaustion, Irmo felt no affection at all. He felt only pity.   
  


He however still somehow _cared_ , for him. Irmo was certain of one thing : he was far from being done with his brother. For there was a new flame within his core – wild, eager. A flame that the flickering spark of love could never match in infernal radiance. It was the pyre of _hate_ , and it burnt with hunger. It roared, demanding more as Irmo threw his old self within, piece by piece. His eyes, his tongue, his flesh and every bone ; he cast it all into the blazing mouth of madness. Once the fires of oblivion and renewal would be fed, Irmo would fully be reborn.   
  


He smiled almost fondly as he reached out, caressing Namo's charcoal hair. Touch – even such a simple thing seemed far more intense than before. He sensed all things, as though they whispered at his ear with their own voice, everything possessing a tongue of its own.   
  


_Hair – black, unbrushed, knotted. Sleep – troubled, intense. Knotted._

_  
_Irmo was in awe before his own capacity to feel, to decipher. He had indeed become far mightier.

  
  


    A sound rose from Namo's throat, and his eyelids slightly opened. He blinked, chasing away the sting old tears had left behind. In half-awakeness he stared at Irmo, before he realized his little brother was staring back.   
Namo's eyes widened, and he looked at him in near shock, rubbing his swollen eyes as to chase this illusion away. But as he blinked a few more times he understood he dreamt not. He muttered Irmo's name, and repeated it more assuredly as he lunged forward, hugging him tightly.   
  
Irmo remained as cold and stiff as a frozen twig. He hardly felt anything from Namo's desperate embrace, neither pity not compassion. He just found it ridiculous.   
  


Namo kissed his cheek, and reluctantly pulled back as he felt him cold and unresponding. Their eyes met. Namo's were swollen, slightly reddened by unceasing sorrow, however there now was great joy within them. But this joy was rapidly replaced by bewilderment, as he endeavoured to understand why Irmo was showing such distance.   
Namo cupped his brother's face with both hands, as though to study him better, to understand why such coldness still lingered – was he not awake, and back to life ?   
  


But without a word Irmo pushed him back, seizing his wrists and shoving his hands away from him. He looked intensely at Namo.   
  


''I do not want your pity'', he snapped. ''Leave me alone.''  
  


Hurt settled on Namo's face, and he tentatively reached out, trying to get Irmo's attention, but his attempt was unrewarded.   
  


''I am fine,'' Irmo sighed. ''I need you not. Now let me go.''  
  


He pushed back the heavy layers of blankets from him, and though his entire body protested at the sudden effort of standing up, Irmo tried to maintain his balance. But he tripped and swayed, and Namo immediately jumped to catch him in time.   
He held him carefully, almost cradling him, but Irmo would have nothing of it. He pushed him back again.  
  


''Leave me ! I told you I am fine,'' he repeated with seething rage.   
  
But Namo's bewilderment was replaced by irritation, and he grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him as to bring him back to reason.   
  


''You owe me an explanation,'' he declared, trying not to let anger overtake his tone. ''When I found you, you were–''  
  
''Dead,'' Irmo sighed frustratedly. ''And what of it ?''   
  


Namo stared at him, taken aback by such bluntness. What had happened to his little brother ? Irmo pushed him away with a groan, and walked to the chamber's door. But Namo held him back by the arm.   
  


''Talk to me,'' he begged him. ''Let me help you !''  
  
Suddenly Irmo's coldness vanished, and his rage burst out.   
  
'' _Help_ me ?'' he shouted. ''My dear Namo, you are a bit late.''  
  
''It is not too late,'' he desperatly tried to calm him down. ''We can make it right, so that it will not happen again. Let me help you,'' he implored him.  
  


Irmo remained silent for a moment, before he let out a quiet chuckle. Its murmur reverberated on the walls, in the air, and its eerie sound filled Namo's heart with gloom.   
  
''Believe me, Sweet Namo,'' he sighed. ''It will never happen again. I no longer am weak.''  
  
If this was meant to be comforting, Namo felt it the utter opposite way. A cold chill invaded him as he looked upon Irmo's face. Something was deeply wrong.   
  
''What do you mean ?'' he stuttered, unable to keep his mask of unaffectedness.   
  


But Irmo merely smiled, and as he did, Namo felt the air of his very lungs trembling. He blinked, and for half a moment the creature that stood before him no longer was Irmo. His eyes were empty tombs, and his grinning mouth gaped wide, icicle-like teeth by hundreds, and his hair was as a mass of tentacles.   
  


He let out a strangled, terrorized gasp, and as he blinked again this ghastly image vanished. Irmo was back, smiling almost naively, his head tilted to a side.   
  


''Is there anything wrong, Sweet Namo ?'' He inquired with sickening kindness.   
  


Namo shook his head as to answer him, feeling cold sweat coating his skin with ice.   
  
''Indeed,'' Irmo replied for him. ''There is nothing wrong.''  
  


He nodded, and turned his head from him. He did not follow his silhouette as Irmo exited the chamber, clicking the door almost too gently. He listened to his little brother's footsteps dying out in the distance, and when silence finally settled, he let out a sigh of relief.

  
But then he noticed the candles, that he had lit by dozens, had died. When did they ? Ribbons of smoke were dancing about, ascending to the ceiling and encircling him. Namo could not take away from his mind the terrifying vision of Irmo. As he stared in nothingness he felt a chill travelling his bones, and he sat on the bed. His own, beloved darkness were crushing him down.   
He oddly, yet whole-heartedly wished to bathe in Laurelin's full light, and let it cleanse his shadowed soul.

 


	15. The Everlasting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Namo opens his heart to Manwë.

     Light came through the dark stained-glass of the Halls. Its abstract patterns coloured the rays of Laurelin, projecting it in shades of violet and blue, turning brightness to gloom. There was a faint breeze coming in, a fresh draught cleansing the heavy, thick air of the Halls, sweeping all oppressing shadows away. This gentle wind danced in the spiders' webs, moving their castles of filigrane with playful maligness.  
  


Namo stood in the draught's way, and closed his eyes as it passed through his hair. It felt so peaceful. He was restless, plagued by nightmares everytime he laid down to sleep. Through his twisted dreams he could sense his brother's resentment, and Irmo took great delight in showing it to him, through the greatest horror he could manage to design.   
  


Reality, and the present moment was a haven of peace for Namo. He endeavoured to focus on everything that demanded even the tiniest bit of attention. Yet his agitated, sleep-deprived mind granted him no such thing. His attention lasted no longer than a couple of seconds, and he caught his thoughts drifting off, wandering to the distant wish of _sleep_. Sooner or later, he would have no choice but to rest.   
  


_Later_ , he wished. _The latest possible.  
_

But even awake, he felt uneasy. There was something lurking in the shadows, that refused him even the shortest moment of peace. Namo constantly felt watched, closely observed even when he was fully focused.   
  


Sometimes, when pondering upon some scribbled scroll, he would feel a low, almost unperceptible growling, slowly closing in from behind. The more he tried to ignore it, the more the presence grew, and he would at last spin around swiftly, expecting with terror to be faced with the very embodiment of horror. He imagined it in detail ; his brother's twisted form, with eyes as tombs and hair as serpents. But only blackness was there, and it always was so. There was nothing – only his delirious mind, begging for even just a minute of sleep.   
  


He had come to wonder if perhaps, Irmo wanted him dead. Could the Valar kill each other ? Could they wrench life away from one another, and make it their own ? If such thing was possible, then Irmo would be the most dreaded, most redoubted predator. For if he could weave such frightening visions, could he not also use them as a means to petrify his prey ? Namo would be the first on his list.   
  


As he pictured his brother upon him, smothering him under the weight of fear, Namo was seized with an intense shiver. Though the room was bathed with light, and the wind gently hummed at his ear, he could feel no warmth. He was alone in this, and vulnerable. But not for long.   
Manwë was coming to visit. Namo had tried to convince himself it was the reason why he had opened the windows, to let air and light in. Manwë loved the light, did he not ? But deep within, Namo knew he had done it out of fear, and the unbearable feeling of being watched.   
  


It had been long, since he last saw Manwë. He had not seen him since the incident between Melkor and Tulkas, if he recalled well.   
He remembered Manwë's utter shock, and bewilderment in front of such a mess. Thinking back, Namo was certain it would have been better not to say a word of it to him. Manwë did not need this, did he ? He already was busy enough with all that happened in Arda, and its reconstruction after Melkor's madness. But of course, the Dark One had found a means to annoy his brother, even from the deepest and most remote cell of the Halls.   
Namo sometimes wished Melkor's imprisonment would not last so long. Not out of pity, but of sheer irritation. He could not bear even the mere thought of him.  
  


Namo sighed. Unrest truly made him more bitter than usual. Of course he had nothing personal against Melkor... thinking about him simply was a means to pour out his ill feelings for his brother. He felt afraid, and was anguished by Irmo's ministrations against him, but he also was wrathful.   
Of course he could understand his brother did not love him as he once did – though the reason of it remained obscure to Namo. But to _that_ point ? Irmo was overreacting. He was being childish, and amused himself by tormenting his brother, only to give himself the illusion of being superior.   
When would he understand there existed no such thing ? Superiority was meaningless, especially between the two of them. Namo was well aware of Irmo's power, and he needed no demonstration of it. But he nonetheless fell into Irmo's traps, and fueled his power by giving in to fear.   
  
For a short moment, he felt a surge of confidence. But he sighed, remembering it would hardly last. It was always this way. By day Namo could gather enough willpower to convince himself he could face his brother's illusions, yet when night came, all his courage shattered. He was to Irmo's mercy again, and this circle took no end.   
  


Namo shook his head, sighing. There was no good in pondering on this. The least he could do was telling Manwë about it. Surely the King of the Valar would have felt something was strange with Irmo... Namo could not be the only one, could he ? Many probably felt uneasy about those dreams of a new kind ; they just were reluctant to mention it. Out of fear, perhaps. Plus, Irmo was the subject of Manwë's visit. There had to be a connection.   
Namo took a deep breath, bracing himself. They would find a way. They could save Irmo from his own madness.

  
  


     He felt Manwë coming even before he stepped through the door. His formidable aura resplended, preceeding him as he progressed towards Namo. His presence was an ensuring, comforting light, never blinding.   
Manwë was a gentle being, never giving in to any violent emotion. He knew when and how to be strict. He favoured kindness and compromises, always speaking and acting with fondness. Namo was convinced it was impossible to hate him. His kindness mirrored his wisdom. Manwë was powerful, yet he used his power with care. He was an example to follow.   
As he closed in, Namo could nearly see all shadows creeping back to the Void, being chased away by Manwë's radiance. His heart grew lighter. He could feel the claws unclenching, and all hissing voices swearing against the coming of light, as they crawled back in near fear. Namo sighed in relief, as he saw the door opening on Manwë.   
He gave Namo a beaming smile.  
He bowed respectfully to his king. But Manwë held up his hand, shaking his head slightly. He was not here as Namo's superior, but as fellow Vala. As a friend, even. They sat together, in front of an elegant fireplace.   
  


There were such rooms in the Halls, designed specifically to receive guests. These places were few, and most of them slept under a thick layer of dust. Yet Namo made sure there always was at least one ready to welcome an unexpected guest.   
This specific one had the most windows of all, and was constantly warmer than the others. It seemed it did not belong to the Halls – too bright, too welcoming. Namo tried once again to convince himself he had not chosen it due to his recent fear of dark corners. No, he thought. Manwë liked the light. It would have been unappropriate to meet him in a dark place. There of course was no other reason.  
  


They remained silent for a moment. Manwë was captivated by the odd, uncanny dance of the silver flames, burning within the hearth. They were as shreds of silk, blown from below by an unseen breath. They gave off no warmth. A few moths carefully flew around them, as intrigued as Manwë by this unearthly fire.   
  


''An illusion,'' Namo explained, gesturing towards the fire. ''A gift from Irmo, a long time ago.''  
  


Manwë contemplated the fire a little longer, before he sat upright in his armchair. His smile broadened.   
  


''It is convenient you make mention of him,'' he said. ''Dear Irmo was the reason of my visit, as you knew.''  
  


Namo's jaw clenched. He answered not, expecting Manwë to resume, but he caught him staring.   
  


''I did not mean to make you uneasy about it,'' he declared, noticing Namo's tension. ''I apologize.''  
  


Namo mentally slapped himself. What an idiot was he ! Being so readable, so transparent in front of his _king ;_ what did he have in mind ? He shook his head, opening his mouth to give justification for his unappropriate response, but Manwë preceeded him.   
  


''It is all fine,'' he ensured him, smiling softly. ''I know how difficult it must have been for you. Finding your brother lifeless, and watching over him for so long with no certitude of his return...'' he paused, his smile vanishing. ''I cannot pretend to understand how it feels. But enough of this – he is now back !''  
  


Namo forced himself to smile.   
  


''He is,'' he nodded, trying to sound as cheerful as possible. ''It is for the best.''  
  


An uncomfortable silence settled between them. Namo's affirmation sounded as a question – no, he was not entirely sure it was for the best. He was doing poorly at concealing his concerns about Irmo, and he felt ashamed of it. Especially in front of Manwë ; it felt wrong to lie to him, even a little.   
  


''I must ask you something,'' Namo finally declared. ''As you may expect, it concerns Irmo.''  
  


Manwë nodded, waiting patiently, his natural smile stretching his lips again. How could he always look and feel so benevolent, so genuinely affectionate ? It was beyond him.   
  


''Though I am glad Irmo is back,'' he began, ''I cannot deny I feel something odd about him. He has changed, and I fear to be the only one to see it.''  
  


It was painful. Namo was speaking his heart out, confessing to Manwë what he should probably keep for himself.   
Manwë cast his eyes down for a moment. He looked as though he was... away. Was he listening to the Father's voice ? Was He telling him what to answer ? Namo had always wondered how it must be, to hear His voice within his own thoughts... Surely Manwë was the only one fitted for it. Anyone else would not have endured it – to the point of falling into madness.   
When he looked up again, he was smiling.   
  


''It is good to hear about your concerns, dear Namo.'' He reached out to cover Namo's hand with his own. ''But I do not see any evil in the change that occured to Irmo. He is different, yet could it be otherwise ? He is back from far away.''  
  


Namo did his best not to wrench his hand away. As much as he liked Manwë, his tactile habit was something that put him off. Touch in general, from almost everyone, repulsed him. _Almost_. He clenched his teeth, trying to focus on the moment.   
  


''I did not expect him to be exactly the same upon his return indeed,'' Namo acknowledged. ''However the power he has gained worries me. I fear he puts it to ill use.''  
  


Manwë blinked, taking a surprised expression.   
  


''Do not be so pessimistic, Namo !'' he chuckled. ''The dreams Irmo creates are indeed of a new kind, yet so wonderful ! How could they be used to do evil ? There is only beauty and bliss in our sleep, since dear Irmo is back to us.''  
  


Namo felt his heart sinking. He _was_ the only one. Irmo was tormenting him on purpose, striving to isolate him from the other Valar. Weakening him. Destroying him.   
  
''And... What of nightmares ?'' Namo stuttered.   
  


''Nightmares ?'' Manwë repeated, tilting his head to a side. ''There is no more of them. I spoke with Irmo no later than yesterday, and he assured me he would keep us safe from them. There is nothing to worry about.''  
  


''I see,'' Namo declared, keeping his head and eyes low.   
Through the silence he thought he heard a chuckle, faint and high-pitched, from some viscious creature mocking his misery.   
  


''Is everything fine, Namo ?'' Manwë inquired, sounding rather concerned.   
  


He looked up, and felt the most intense terror he ever experienced. Half-hidden behind Manwë was the Nightmare, in its most dreadful form, and its mouth expanded in a silent shriek.   
Namo cried out and jumped off his armchair, pointing in panick at the thing.   
  


Manwë spun around, but there was nothing anymore. The creature was gone. He slowly turned back to Namo, bewildered. They stared at each other for a long, uncomfortable moment, before Namo bowed.   
  


''I apologize,'' he sighed, gathering his mind again. ''I must be tired.''  
  


Manwë closed the space between them, and gently took him by the shoulders. He smiled sympathetically at him.   
  


''You should rest,'' he advised in a soft voice.  
  


Namo nodded with little convinction, avoiding his eyes. Manwë sighed as he saw him trembling faintly, and pulled him in a tight embrace, gently caressing his back.   
Namo did not resist. It was pleasant, soothing. His face was buried in Manwë's feather-white hair, and he could smell his delicate, cotton-like scent. It was just as a cloud, Namo thought before he felt utterly stupid. Clouds had no smell. He waved his silliness away, trying to enjoy this moment as best as he could. It would not happen often – he would not allow it.   
They parted almost reluctantly, and Namo thanked him for his time.   
  


''If you ever feel worried about Irmo, or anything else, please come to me,'' Manwë pleaded. ''I will be glad to help you, dear Namo.''   
  


He nodded, smiling back. It felt ensuring, to have Manwë on his side. Though the King of the Valar had no nightmares, and probably did not understand Namo's concerns, he could be trusted. He knew it. Namo was no longer alone in front of his malicious brother.   
  


Manwë turned around to leave, but paused, briefly looking back. He shook his head and took a few more steps, before he halted again. Namo frowned.   
  


''Is there anything you wish to ask me ?'' he inquired.   
  


Manwë looked down, appearing to be lost in his thoughts again, before he voiced out his demand.   
  


''This conversation about your brother made me wish to see mine,'' he confessed in a strangled voice. ''Perhaps should I listen to our Father, and forget about this silly idea.''  
  


Namo stared at him, mouth agape. He had never seen him in such a state of dilemma. He endeavoured not to let his own opinion of Melkor come through. Manwë pitied his brother, felt guilty for his situation. The love Manwë bore to his brother was blind, and a part of Namo could understand this. Were they so different, at this precise moment ? Irmo despised him, yet Namo could not resolve himself to hate him back. He still loved him, and greatly.   
  


''Go to him,'' Namo said. ''Care not for our Father's words, only for now.''  
  


Manwë stared at him in shocked surprise. Surely he did not expect to be encouraged in this. It was foolish, to go to the Dark One – and being his brother would not protect Manwë. Melkor was vile, black-hearted, and evil came out of him as an ensnaring aura. He would have no mercy for Manwë. The thought of it almost made Namo regret his words, but the tears that glistened in Manwë's eyes convinced him to shut his mouth.   
Namo watched him go, taking all the light with him as he disappeared behind the door.   
  


As slowly as a rising tide, darkness started flooding the room again. It began from the corners, from behind the curtains and from beneath the furniture, before it crept up the walls. Soon Namo was swallowed as well and he hunched forward, cradling his head in his shaking hands.   
He dared not look up. _It_ was there – the Creature, Nightmare, _Irmo_. He was playing with him, punishing him for having shared his concerns with Manwë. And he took great delight in it.   
  


For in the Gardens Irmo was laughing, laying on the grass as he howled out his hilarity. How entertaining was it, to let Namo think he was in control.

 


	17. Rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guest starring Vairë ! This one is longer than usual... Hope you like it :)

     Irmo laid on the blue-green grass, supple blades gently caressing his bare back and outstretched arms, raising shivers from his nape to the tip of his toes. He was as an angel cast down, frozen on the soft ground.   
The Gardens were silent. Calm usually reigned there, a haven of peace for wounded souls... Irmo knew well how everyone felt about this place. All those who suffered came here to ease their pain, to behold wonders woven by the Master of dreams and his servants. Though the magic that bathed the place was more radiant, more beautiful than ever, it hid beyond its multiple layers a far darker thing. Beneath the peaceful, blessed calmness of the Gardens was silent threat, a _thing_ lurking and preying on visitors to seize and devour them. All things that lived were spying, for all were servants of the twisted Master. Only too few were wary of him.   
Irmo had already lived this. He had already been utterly still, waiting for something to occur.   
  


_Death,_ he thought, _happened last time. No more !_   
  


He had conquered death and claimed life over it, drawing power from his past weakness. Despair had been replaced by euphoria – or madness, as some would say.   
Irmo smiled lazily, gazing at the pale green sky, shaded in violets and blues. All soft. All cold. He extended an arm to the sky. He could see the colours through the space of his fingers, each presenting a different shade, the firmament mirroring on his porcelain skin.   
A light chuckle creeped from the depths of his chest, gaining in intensity to shake his shoulders. He felt it as a horse galloping up his throat, as though Nahar himself was thomping on him.   
  
He could not control it. His laughter made his throat clench, and soon he was weeping. He covered his face with his pale, soft-coloured hands, wishing to cover himself wholly from the world.  
Was he singing ? Was he wailing ? A song of misery he sung, greying all colours around him with the bleakness of his voice.   
He knew not why he was crying. He was not sad, was he ? Tired neither. In pain, neither. Or was he ?   
  


He let light come through his fingers, and saw the sky had turned from softness to decay. Red and brown, green and darks – colours he could not name.   
Why was he doomed to _feel_? His journey to the beyond had changed nothing to it. He sighed deeply, exhaustingly, and let his hands fall back on the grass – it had turned red too. Irmo gazed at it, head turned to his side.   
Red. Blood-red. Anger-red. Pain-red. Red that gushes out of ragged flesh. Red spurting from a cut throat. Red that floods, red that shrieks. Red.   
  


He felt burning tears rolling down his face, not following the ground's direction. They cascaded down to his chin, as though he were standing on his feet. Perhaps he wanted to stand, so his tears followed his wish. Or was he standing in someone's dreams ? He would know about it, as he knew of all dreams. His Maiar never used his person in their work, and if he appeared in someone's thoughts, it was from his own decision.   
Maybe was it Namo, that was thinking of him. It would not be unlikely. Namo. What a mess was he causing. But Irmo was amused.   
  
He could not repress his smile, and his tears immediately dried, dissolving up in a sparkling mist, as a thousand stars born from his eyes. He started laughing again.  
This look on his Sweet Brother's face, when he caught a glimpse of his illusion ! And Manwë's utter bewilderment, thinking Namo was sinking in madness ! How delightful was it, to play with them. He was not doing it out of malevolence, was he ? He merely wished to test his powers. His strength was renewed, and he would not resist the temptation to use it. It had been denied to him for so long.   
Since he came out of his old, weak self, he felt as though multiplied, his person seen through a kaleidoscope held by the Father's hand itself, and elevating him up to His own level.   
He was divine, just as his brother. And his other Brothers. He was no more special than them all – at least, they thought. But he could feel himself, powerful and new, and he looked down on his former self, this pitiful butterfly believing in magic.   
He looked up to the sky, words pouring out of his mouth as a chant. They made little sense, sounded twisted and distorsed. It was a song of disfiguration, of exalted euphoria, an anthem for his own being. He sung as wind that howls, as thunder that cracks, all in the softeness of gently falling snow.   
He sung until his voice went hoarse, and his throat sore, and when the words choked there, he ceased. He laid his hands there, pressing until no more air could pass. He took them off only after a long moment and breathed in, feeling cold air engulfing in the deep, empty chasm of his being.   
  


He moved not. He saw no reason to do it. He moved and talked only to please, day after day wore his mask of benevolence. _They_ had no idea of fearsome he could be !   
Namo knew. He only nightmared, tormented by all the visions Irmo was pleased to send his way. It was not Namo's fault. He just needed a subject for testing. And he loathed him, and everything his brother had made him go through.   
  


Yes, he hated him, but not nearly as much as Irmo resented himself. The entity they once formed should never have been divided. Neither of them remembered this distant, abstract time – when perhaps even _time_ was not born, but they knew they once were one. They were never meant to be two. One they should have stayed for the sake of all, and especially of them both. Perhaps somewhere on Vairë's tapestries was woven the moment where this cleavage occured. But she would never let him see.   
  
Here it was : he wanted to sleep again. His eyelids felt heavy, and his vision blurred on the dark, greening sky above. It was reacting to his song, it seemed. The song of a sorrowful soul, that even in the uttermost state of power, would never find satisfaction.

 

 

     Vairë had finally convinced herself to talk to her husband. Not that Namo usually looked perfectly healthy and rested, but this time and for quite a while now, he was alarming. His face was hollow, eyes sunken, skin parchment-like. Even more than usual. Even the Maiar had started worrying. And Manwë had come to her, politely asking her to watch over Namo.   
Could she oppose Manwë's demand ? It would equal opposing His. So she had nodded, returning to her loom with pursed lips. She disliked being to told what she must do, and hated being seen as an uncaring wife.   
  
She was not particularily close to Namo, indeed. But even without Manwë's intervention, she would have noticed something was deeply wrong. The only reason why she had not talked to him already was out of fear to wound his pride. Namo hated appearing as weak. Telling him he looked diminished would be a great insult. So she had shut her mouth, until Manwë came and made his request.   
  
Namo looked surprised when she came to him, and presented to him her worries. Surprised, but not at all displeased.   
It was the exact contrary of what was the use between them. Neither Vairë nor Namo enjoyed talking. This time however he had even given her a smile, a tired and weary one, yet relieved, that Vairë had never seen before. She answered it by embracing him, stiffly and coldly. Manifestations of affection were not the use either. But, unexpectedly enough, Namo returned the hug. This clumsy moment did not linger, and when Vairë felt him relaxing a bit she pulled back, thinking she had ridiculed herself enough.   
  
Then, they talked. For a long moment Namo thought of the right words to use, probably wishing to be done with it as quickly as possible. When he finally started, pronouncing Irmo's name, Vairë squinted.   
  
_Please not him again_ , she muttered under her breath.   
  
She thought she had been silent, but Namo lifted his eyes and they roamed the entire room, around Vairë and behind her, as though searching. She frowned, clearing her throat as to drag him back into the moment.   
  
''Irmo what?'' She inquired, sounding more bitter than she expected.   
  
Namo told her of his nightmares, and she replied with depictions of her dreams. In his anguish she saw only Irmo's cruelty, and she was not surprised. Why would this tapestry-eating moth choose to pester Namo in particular, she had no idea. But it did not sound so uncanny. It was clear to her that the Feanturi were upset at one another.   
  


Perhaps she could ask Nienna about it, though the Sister did not like her much. Nienna had grown cold towards her after the incident with Melkor. Vairë knew she had not been vigilant enough. But what was done could not be changed, and there was no need to lament upon it. It did not even seem so wrong to Vairë.   
She would consider asking her nonetheless ; it was worth trying. If she could get Nienna's opinion on the situation, it would already be a great step forward.   
  
But when her husband finished his tale, it merely seemed to her that Namo was worried for nothing. He was taking Irmo's bait, and as the Moth was playful, it set even more baits for Namo to take. It was a viscious circle that Namo needed to break, and he must face his brother sooner or later.   
Irmo had gained power, this was true. But it did not justify anything. Yes, Namo had felt guilty for the Moth's – sadly – temporary passing. She had heard enough of this. But he was taking his guilt to heart, sickening himself with it, and his mind had convinced him Irmo was vile.   
To Vairë's eyes, Irmo _was_ vile. But he was not _evil_ , not as Melkor was. Irmo was on their side and he would never fall for darkness. He was off-putting and insufferable, not idiot. Not entirely.   
  
She sighed in answer, and offered Namo to sleep with him, just for once. His face illuminated at her words, and for a moment she thought he would jump into her arms. Fortunately, he behaved.   
But he thanked her warmly, and gave her a desperate, pitiful smile.   
Vairë could not remember if she had even slept with him once. Eternity and memory were not a good match.   
  
On that night they laid side by side, and she held his hand until he drifted off. Perhaps she could have held him to her, but she thought she was already giving enough of herself. So as soon as he was sound asleep, she turned her back to him and closed her eyes.   
After a few seconds she thought she heard a sound – a breath, and it was not Namo's. She propped herself up, narrowing her eyes as she searched the dimly-lit room. Telperion's faint, distant light did not grant her much sight, but she had lit a single candle, just in case. Seeing nothing she shrugged, settling back in the bed. It probably was the wind.   
  


 

     Namo's eyes cracked open. He was somewhere in-between sleep and consciousness, but the line was blurred. Why was he awake ? He thought he had heard a sound, as a door that slams, and footsteps. He had been so soundly asleep he thought he could not be woken up by such a noise. But he had, and now he knew going back to sleep would not be easy. For the more seconds passed, the less tranquil he was, and shadows were growing at the back of his mind.   
  
The candle Vairë had lit earlier was now entirely consumed, but Namo could see it had not been long since it died. The wick was sinking in liquid wax, and it still gave off smoke, a translucent ribbon dancing in the darkness. Telperion's faint, silver glow filtered through the stained-glass, painting on the floor geometric shapes in dark blues and purples. Eveyone saw something slightly different, in those elegant windows. Namo saw souls, shapeless silhouettes with hollow eyes and gaping mouths, with long claws groping in vain. He saw inevitability, he saw doom.   
And deep within he knew it was what everyone should accept to see, insead of trying to embellish what was explicitly depicted. Too many refused to forsake their chimeras, lest truth seeped into their minds as mist in ruins.   
The ribbon soon vanished, thinning in a hundred strings of smoke as long, silver hair floating in breathless breeze.   
  


Namo felt a chill in the air. He sat up in the bed, careful not to wake Vairë up. She was not moving at all. Not even her breath could be heard, which was... unsettling. Namo turned his head to her, but he saw only absence. Where she had slept was perfectly neat, as though the sheets had not been moved at all. There was one long, white hair on the black pillow. Namo reached out to it with a trembling hand, and wrapped it around his finger. His wife's presence had comforted him, earlier. The tiniest bit of her could maybe hold the same power.   
  


Namo hugged his arms to himself, rubbing his shoulders in an attempt to warm himself up. Why was everything so suddenly cold ? Even the sheets seemed to have turned to ice, and he was wrapped in it. His breath produced tiny clouds. This relieved him a little : it meant the room was _really_ cold, and it was not one more illusion of his mind.   
  


He remained sat, motionless. Vairë would come back. Perhaps she did not feel sleepy anymore, and had decided to fetch herself something to weave, or knit, or embroid. She had always work to do, and was never idle. Every free moment she had found its use, and she dedicated much time to her art, letting her dainty fingers work as a spider, weaving the most beautiful fabric one could lay eyes upon. She would come back. She was not heartless, her heart was simply made of tender stone.   
  
Namo waited. He endeavoured not to think about anything, focusing on the hair, on the abstract figures his cold breath was blowing, on the dance of darkness through the stained-glass's eerie colours. But as he forced himself not to think, thoughts bloomed naturally. He remembered his talk with Manwë, to try and cast away the shadows. But only one image came to his mind ; the silent scream of the twisted face just behind Manwë, that Namo had been the only one to see. He felt cold sweat pearling on his forehead, and his heart thumped.   
  
_Think of something else,_ he told himself.   
  
But everything he once found beautiful and fair had been perverted, turned into horrifying things. Butterflies and moths bore grins on their wings, and their flapping sung with hoarse, screeching voices, laughter lurking in their distant growls. In the petals of the flowers he pictured he saw faces, hollow eyes with no end, in which he fell to fathomless depths. A dark, creeping presence was waiting for his back to turn, claws ready to clutch his throat, fangs dripping with venom.   
  
Namo tried to remember Irmo. But it was in vain. For all things he once associated with him had withered and died, leaving only a scent of decay behind, a floating smell that recalled older days, when their love still was uncorrupt. Beyond his fear, was a sadness even greater. He gazed at the white hair, realizing how much it resembled his brother's own. No matter how hard he tried, he could not remember the soft, silky touch of Irmo's hair, when in dreams it would fall on his chest, caressing his bare skin with loving tenderness.   
Namo could not believe their love had once been pure. But it was cursed. They were doomed from the start, and they knew they would meet retribution. Perhaps it had come at last.   
  
Namo felt his eyelids growing heavier. But the sound of the door opening woke him up at once, and he put his reveries aside.   
In the darkness he could hardly see Vairë, but he recognized her raiment and hair, worn loose on her bent shoulders. She did not speak, did not even look at him as she laid on the bed, on her side, back turned to him. He did not expect more from her. But he was intrigued by her silence ; as though she were a mere shadow. He stared at her back. Something was wrong.   
  
He could not see any motion from her breathing, neither did he hear it. He clearly, distinctly remembered hearing it when she went to sleep earlier. And silence was not so utter before, indeed there still were Maiar awake, and their activity produced a distant, faint rumour. Now, there was no sound. Not even a breath.   
  
Namo's heart seemed reluctant to beat, as though trying to be as silent as possible. He felt something at his finger. He looked at his hand, and was almost startled to see a moth there. He gazed at the silver insect, unsure how to feel. And the more he stared at it, the less comfortable he felt.   
  


Suddenly there was a chuckle, just aside him. Namo turned his head to Vairë, and saw her shoulders moving raggedly, shaking with an ecstatic laughter she tried to contain. He still could hear them – the giggles choked and muffled, coming from the depths of her throat. And her back was still turned to him. Namo's flesh had turned to ice, and his blood was the coldest river, progressively freezing his heart. His finger tingled again. He looked to it anew, slowly turning his head from his wife, but he immediately wished he had not moved at all.   
  
The hair had changed into a dozen worms, curling and crawling between his fingers, and the moth was fluttering its wings – laughing. Namo could hear it. He made a frightened sound, brutally shaking his hand to get rid of the worms, and the moth took flight.   
It stayed static in the air, wings flapping so fast they seemed utterly still. Namo stared at it as it moved, slowly flying aside to Vairë. He could not take his eyes off it. It landed on his wife's shoulder, and stopped all motion.   
  


Namo could only hear his pounding pulse. He looked at Vairë. Her head was turned to him now. But not her body. He jumped out of the bed at this sight, yet unable to look away from it. Vairë's face was twisted into a grin, eyes so wide they looked lidless. Her open, smirking mouth let show hundreds of teeth, thin as needles.   
  
_No,_ Namo mumbled, almost begging for it to end. But the transformation was not over. Vairë's eyes suddenly hollowed, and her arms cracked, morphing into crooked wings.   
_Moth. Nightmare._   
Namo stared in horror as the creature rose in the air, the image of his wife utterly gone, replaced by this _thing_ , hissing and laughing hectically. Briars and tentacles pierced from its skull, replacing silver hair, weaving and curling as to imitate it.   
He could not move anymore. His heart was racing madly, his mind overwhelmed. Before Nightmare could achieve its transfiguration, Namo's consciousness had faltered.  
  


 

     The air had changed. It no longer was the incense-thick atmosphere of the Halls, that smothered and muffled voices and breath under its weight. It almost smelled of flowers. Of Spring. The early days of Spring, when Winter still lingers in the night, watching over the flowers, careful not to freeze them to death. It smelled of young blossoms, of flowers still timid to open.   
This scent, Namo thought it lost. He was in the Gardens, when Arda was still young, just as all the Valar. When peace ruled everything, and _evil_ was not even a word.   
Namo was laying on the grass, amongst lily-white flowers tiny as dewdrops. The dark skies were lit with the first stars ; the first children of Varda, and they sparkled with the vigour of youth.   
  
Namo sat up, and got to his feet, realizing only now how small he was. He was dreaming again, and he feared this idyllic, pure vision would transform into something wicked. But all was so fair...   
Before him, a butterfly-winged figure appeared, his face beaming with innocent joy.   
_Irmo_.   
He ran to him, clasping his little brother tightly. Irmo chucked, his high-pitched, almost child-like voice making Namo's heart shrink. It was not only a dream, it was a memory. Would Nightmare be cruel to the point of twisting this, too ? This memory, this splinter of innocence he kept so dear, safe down the abyss of his heart.   
It was the time when their first chaste kiss was shared. It was the time when they held hands with no care for what others could think. They were young, and naive.   
He would never let his treasured memories be tainted by Irmo's mad thirst for power. Never.  
  
Before him Nightmare rose, spreading its moth wings and laughing victoriously, as Irmo dissolved into sand in Namo's embrace. The Gardens changed, withering at once, freezing in decay.   
Rage started to boil in Namo's veins, and Nightmare only laughed all the more.   
  
''Is it amusing, to you ?'' Namo shouted to the creature. ''Answer me, _brother !_ ''   
  
Nightmare seemed to diminish. It did not expect response. Namo stepped forward, growing to his full height as he walked, with each step more assured.   
  


''You can send me all the visions you want,'' he hissed. ''You can send shadows to lurk in my back, you can try to frighten me if you please, but _this_ ,'' he yelled, as he caught Nightmare by the throat, feeling it shrinking in his grasp. '' _This,_ is where you cross the line.''  
  
Namo took control, and Nightmare shrieked. It became smaller, weaker, its features softening to resemble Irmo's. But this illusion would not force Namo to let go.   
  
''Get out of my mind,'' he growled threateningly. ''You played with me enough.''  
  
All around the dream started to shatter, and to progressively fade away. Soon Namo lost his voice, his sensations, and everything went black.  
Until he awoke again.  
  


 

     Namo sat up in his bed, calmly. He was not covered in sweat. His heart beat a normal pace. Beside him Vairë was still asleep, breathing peacefully. The candle was still alight, soon to die out, but outside of the Halls Telperion was ending His watch. The colours were changing from silver to gold, as Laurelin slowly awoke.   
Namo looked to the stained-glass, seeing the figures moving and dancing, as they always did. But something had changed.  
His fear had morphed into wrath, cold and calm, a storm to soon be unleashed upon the Gardens.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. The next chapter might be longer, given this one only stands as an introduction... Please, tell me what you thought ! And if you have any advice or suggestion to help me improve, please do not hesitate ! :)  
> Much love ❤️


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